This isn't a sonnet, nor is it completely faithfully in iambic pentameter wither. However, I remember well when I wrote it - another cold April, snow among other things...
bland white moments of loneliness i ponder
a concentrated mind allowed to wander
wings its way to far, distorted scenes -
mere creations of these frightened dreams?
tired eyes pursue each short mortality
imagination lost and reaching for reality
the sweet snow falls, these reveries to take -
your face reflected in each transient flake
© Naomi Madelin 1989