The name of the one organbuilder was Craft,

the other Dream, both descendants

of an ur-figure. Creation. To graft

metal to wood, not to look askance

at fanatics in the guise of shepherds,

and to listen with both delicacy and might

was required. A duration. Death herds

them and the congregation toward night,

night and the great golden-boulevarded day.

And the work proceeds. Plastics used,

computers daily, silences called prayer.

Ancestry and hi-tech fuse,

in ways not even savant visitors can perceive.

What’s finally dedicated has no name.

There’s no name for all this. Give leave

to time: Time and timing, flame

and flaming, weld and Spirit. Mystery

and hands’ midnight precision.

Of these things no one’s written history

satisfies. As in marriage, decision

comes into configuration with grace.

Men write books explaining wars.

Men, women, and children enter this place

to imagine another. The pipes are doors.

Articles by Charles Vandersee

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