note: This is my first sonnet, so don't be too harsh (I wrote this a few months ago).
I had a hard time working with the iambic pentameter and having everything make some sort of sense (which it doesn't).

A Claim

June 8, 2006

A bright white landscape filled with flying snow;

It’s blinding, blowing, blue with freezing cold.

Yet penguins will march on, the seals will know

That someday soon will rise a Sun of gold.

But until then, the Moon will cast her flame.

So watch the winking Stars and as they spread,

Old Time will spread his wings out with a claim;

That moss will be a cushion for your head;

The Clouds your blanket, cloak, to keep you warm;

A gull, a friend for in your lying wake.

So help will come within each raging storm,

When numb, your body, iced, and full of ache.

--

Indifference cannot make a life fulfilled,

A different view, harsh times, and guidance will.