Prosopopoeia

My stories, you've heard
and sometimes, during storms,
I speak them again, to remind you
of how we were formed-

this is constancy.

In a rusted tin pail
we set by the door,
rainwater collects
like thickened, black oil-

that is tolerance.

And swallows, without grief
or joy, sit stoic and silent
in the water-logged boards
dormant as dusk-

this is conviction.

When morning arrives, pale
as a girl, the world becomes
glistening hills and spirited
open-mouthed birds; this

is adoration.