Objects of Virtue

Will he paint me with his words
like the iridescent colors of the moonlit snow,
shining light into my shadows
 in the darkness before dawn?
Will he place his easel on my mountain
as my peaks crumble under the fervor of the stroke of his brush?
Will he use the colors of the sunrise
and see my light
like the sheen of a pearl
and pluck me from my shell?
Will he paint me gently and capture my fragility
leaving him to see that my beauty is the least of me?
Then and only then I can be certain that I have been seen.
I will not question why,
it just is,
 it is his,
as is mine
and it is yours.
It is genuine.