Keys

If the key is the shape of the keyhole,

So the shaft slides in smoothly,

The round-headed bits reaching in,

Catching in the crevices of the cogs,

Tripping the delicate triggers and settling to fit,

Then what do we make of it?

If they both are golden — the lock and the key —

Both ridged with rust,

The lock framed with two soft curves just like the bow,

And a tiny robust ruby set solidly within them,

Aimed on the key to point directly at the keyhole

Where its mate waits watching from inches above,

What do we make of it?

If a slender black pick, thin and pointed, sleek on sides,

Unassuming, undistinguished, completely ignorable, invisible,

Can slide inside silently, sharply, reaching in and bending

With undulations miraculous, groping for the triggers,

And one by one, with snake-like, worm-like slithering sets them down

And catches them all up…

What are we to make of it?

Both have been born for a singular and tantamount design,

To find the way inside and to open the door,

The one forged hard and strong to seek its other,

And if it had a mind, would it wonder if the other side was solitary too?

The other crafted to open any door and all,

Afterwords deciding if another is needed or if it is satisfied,

And this door, too.  This keyhole it can enter like any.

What are we to make of it?

What are we?