She searches for keys to a kingdom lost—
jangling shafts she once held firmly in her grip.
One opened a tool shed to the magic of a Zen garden—
pebble and rock and plant controlled in layered ascent.
One opened her schoolhouse to the magic of laughter and tales—
young voices echoing her rhymes in croaking chorus.
One opened a slope away to her home and the magic of meals—
fragrant with invitation for people who came, many people. 
Every sunset she walked with royal gait through hill tracks, 
unknown to many but not to her—till a day came
when they found her wandering in a market crowd 
clutching her keys, whispering fervently,
“I have my keys. I know my way home.”

In the city, she searched constantly for keys
to doors that shut out all the magic.
She searched and searched, argued and fought,
spat and hissed, whimpered and cursed,
shat where she pleased.
She looked through wardrobes for her Zen creation,
for her croaking brood, for her home where muffins baked.
Exhaustion reigned all around.
Shoulders slumped, she asked with quiet voice,
“Will you help me find my keys?”
I held her hands in mine, four palms pressed together 
as if in prayer.
She peered at me, then said with knowing laughter,
“How come you don’t look so ugly today?”