Inverness, Again

I thought Inverness
was only a place.

A river moving slowly
between stones,
rain falling over the roofs,
a door opening
for a little while.

I thought it ended there.

Years passed.

Then one evening
in a different room
with a fire burning low,
I felt it again.

Not the river—
but something like it.

A quiet gathering.

First there is silence.

Then small sounds:
a chair shifting,
cloth brushing wood,
someone setting a cup
on the table.

Nothing important happens.

Yet the room begins to change.

The body loosens
as if it had been holding something
for a long time.

Breath returns.

The air grows warmer.

Bread is broken.

The sound is small,
like a stone touching water.

Wine moves slowly in the glass
the way evening moves
across the sky.

No one explains anything.

No one asks
what I have done with my life.

No one measures me.

Outside
the world goes on as usual—

the river running,
the weather turning,
the long work of time.

Inside
there is only this:

bread passing
from one hand to another,

a cup lifted,

voices quiet and ordinary.

I take what is given.

Nothing is demanded.

When I leave
the door closes softly behind me.

But I know the way now.

Not by memory
but by small signs—

a table waiting,
bread meant to be shared,
a cup moving easily
around the circle.

And each time
I arrive again

the same simple gift appears:

the chance
to open my hands,

to receive,

and for a while
not to be afraid.