Every Sunday at the end of service
the pipes resound in fugues, concertos, tocattas
her hands and feet run in crescendos
notes deep and rich ringing off the stone walls
running over our heads and resounding in our souls
I feel a deep kinship
as I gaze in the choir loft
at the organist who for decades has played tres magnifque
her slight stature
her feminity
her gray hair
at odds with the powerful runs that echo and reverberate through this sacred space
I feel so humbled
to be in the presence of her powerful talent
given to us and to God
Oh YES. I can hear it and I know just what you mean. A lovely poem
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Thank you:)!
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