I chose the colors myself:
Eggshell and cream 
for the walls, and for the cabinetry
a pale yellow named for some spring flower 
    I’ve half-forgotten…

    And in case there were to be guests, 
a set of eight plates in varying sizes, 
each with its matching geometric edge, and of course
my inherited glass ladle, whose delicate stem 
reminds of those slick threads which tether
    water lilies to dim slime.

When the rains first started I covered my head 
and ventured out to market 
    to buy an ephah of flour 
    and a measure each of honey and oil
    with which to fill the pantry canisters:
One couldn’t know how long it would go on

lashing desultorily at the portholes—
    how the waters would gather 
til they lifted the keel clear off its supports,
and we went drifting off between the terebinths, 
rising little by little to the height of twig and drowned 
    nest, and higher still until the vessel

    glided up and over the engulfed crowns.
Now there’s only the mineral horizon
as far as any eye can see—
though one rose quartz evening the arc 
of a humpback’s barnacled flank crackled 
    electrically near as I observed from the deck.

    It’s hard to tell which stars are real—
this spatter overhead, or these blazes throbbing
    on the swallow beyond the gunwale.
I’ve released my raven to the air. 
My dove as well. 
    I’m quite comfortable here.
I can’t say whether I desire their return.