a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan sonnets: №288

FOR NOW the fruit of time remains unpeeled
but moments that were granted us on loan
whose memory we touch but never own
are letters that shall one day be unsealed
and from their balsam contents we’ll be healed
when we shall finally know as we are known;
in intervals of time these seeds were sown
like grains of wheat or barley in a field  
the germs that wear our words like husk or shell
the soul that wears the body like a glove
renewing it like water from a well
that angels stamp with signets from above
if you could peer beyond this world’s spell 
you’d see the only thing that’s real is love

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