North of San Francisco
fragment from a poem by Yehuda Amichai
Here the soft hills touch the ocean
like one eternity touching another
and the cows grazing on them
ignore us, like angels.
Even the scent of ripe melon in the cellar
is a prophecy of peace.
The darkness doesn’t war against the light,
it carries us forward
to another light, and the only pain
is the pain of not staying.
[from The Place That Inhabits Us: Poems of the San Francisco Bay Watershed, published by Sixteen Rivers Press]