Somewhere a cardinal

for Tom Tredway

by Ann Boaden

We are fiery dust, the poet said.
He’d have liked that. He rode paradox
(simul justus et peccator) with
the intense exuberant balance
of his biking up and down
the everlasting hills. He
was fire, quick, bright, fierce.
And dust. Though He slay me,
Yet will I trust Him, he quoted once.
Then added, And He will slay us, friends.
Maybe that’s why he loved cardinals,
their robust fragility:
squabbling in air like
colliding flames and then
singing
singing trill over trill over trill
as hills rise like breath into endless sky.
Maybe
somewhere a cardinal
sang paradox into poise,
mystery into beauty,
for him.
I like to think
somewhere a cardinal,
that thing with feathers,
eternally ephemerally
sings (and squabbles)
for him.