A sort-of Christmas poem

Christmas is over, again.
2019 is here for the first time.
But really, it's simply another new day.
One that is here for the first time, again.

Man devised a calendar numbering the days.
I think Nature's New Year would be the moment after Winter Solstice,
when Sun begins to shine longer in the day-sky,
starting the cycle anew, again.

Each year would have two different New Years,
one in the North and one in the South.
If a body had the means to live in each hemisphere,
they could begin a New Year every six months.

But still, there'd be only one Christmas each year.
Man devised Christmas, like he did the calendar.

Fond childhood memories I have of Christmas.
One being, sitting solo in the presence of the tree.
Lights aglow, darkness surrounding, smell of fresh cut pine.
Quietness in the air, mystical, magical.

Since being married, we had always adorned an artificial tree.
But we've not put it up since at least 2010.
Nerve damage developed in Spring, 2011.
I miss having a Christmas tree.

This year, I told Hubby,
"If my improvement continues,
I'd like us to get a real tree for Christmas."
Next year? Year after?

Dim... Bright...
Bright... Dim...
Bright.
Keeping my hope alight.