Faith Is Foxes Relishing Tart Grapes

Faith Is Foxes, Relishing Tart Grapes

Faith is foxes, relishing tart grapes.
Faith is not a creed, recited dryly,
Nor an entry
In Webster’s Dictionary.

Faith is fleeting thoughts in a foxhole.
Faith is a troop ship sailing towards a foxhole-to-be.
Faith is the foxhole in our hearts;
Refuge from slings and arrows of reality.

“Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil the vines:
For our vines have tender grapes.” – (Song of Songs 2:15)

Faith is the foxhole of the grave;
But a hole in the earth is a little place in the heavens.
A coffin is a seed.
A tombstone is a trellis.
Faith is the persistence of blossoms on a winter night.

Faith is the fleeting shadow of Eternal Spring.
Man is matter which contemplates itself.
Faith is the knowledge that “that which doesn’t matter, really matters.”
Faith is not out-foxing ourselves.

Faith is a five letter word (but Who is counting?).
Faith is foxes, relishing tart grapes.

(written circa June, 1999)

This is a little poem I wrote in 1999 for my (at that time) 82 yr old father, who landed on Normandy, Utah beach, on D-Day.

He had told me how, on the troop ship, crossing the Atlantic, each soldier was handed a religious pamphlet entitled “Meeting God in a Foxhole”.

He vividly remembers the first night he spent in a foxhole.

He waited and waited and waited, but nothing happened.

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