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.
—Charles Vandersee
