He is an ark,
and he will carry you
over those troubled waters.
He is safe and heaven sent.
But she leapt from his wooden arms
and over the side and into the churning sea
in what had been called folly
but felt like every kind of free.
The long shadow of his prow
followed her, an accusatory finger.
And he had two of every kind of net
and two by two of every kind of sharp edged thing
with which to hunt beneath the moon. — Annette Marie Smith