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