She's the white sheets, unkept but alive with warmth.
She's the overlooked blank page before the book begins.
She's a silver cloud at night, giving the moon time to rest.
She is the smallest Russian doll, the one very few have the patience to find.
She is the tip of a tower, her mind so above and beyond the clouds, only some venture to look up.
She is the flicker of a candle, unsteady but radiant.
She appears to be simple and quiet.
But after she finds the right person to read her story, she is very complex and large.
And once she is found, you can never forget her.