How Monday Irons Out?

...with a note above this sonnet that "neglected to write on Sunday Nov 6, 2022"

(sonnet #MMMMMMMMCXCVII)

Where night owns yet these minutes, what'd avail?
Thy mercies 'lone, oh LORD my God.  As thence
Pink warms in twilight's aura, smokestacks hence
'Non bill'wing 'gainst the Winter sky whose pale
Eye seems so blank, watch, thankful in betrayl
For Thy great kindness.  Dawn sae pure, suspense
Is silent like a child well-trained fr'intents
And I can't think what else to then detail.
If "life" seems such a pretty thing as twere,
These sunny hours half-filled with hope as blue
Heavns look expansive, while I know tis poor,
Yet how I fall into that groove, the view
Of aught quite perfect seems, 'til night bestir,
Where if I'm riding high, let me see You.

07Nov22