Sonnets for Sunset

The last sonnet.  Any suggestions for a name? 

 

Some think seven is a holy number;

Holy is the only word for this light,

It drew my soul from its lazy slumber,

And demanded all virtue and right

From me, a puny creature in vastness

Far beyond my comprehension and ken,

So wearily and broken, I confess

That I am sinful, again and again,

Pink clouds are what it takes to remind me,

That despite the troubles that firmly stay,

There’s grace and hope, a cozy cup of tea,

For me at the start and end of each day,

And no matter life’s dreary circumstance

My God hovers over all the expanse.