I dreamed of a door - EDIT

I wore the thread that slipped from my daughter's baby blanket around my wrist,
white against tan, bumpy yarn,

it's been four years since my mother patiently crocheted the stitches together
while my daughter rolled in my belly,

impatient.

I dream and there are doors under my fingers
and I am alone.

I take my daughter down to the river.

The water ripples slowly past, carrying barges
for hundreds of years, my shoulders tan darker,

we are absorbing the sun, gorging on sweet cherries
and overripe strawberries.

I write a will and wonder what will become of you,
my fearless daughter.

I teach you to understand the majestic, eternal vastness of a river, then
spend the day skipping rocks out across the water,

to worship the sand between your toes, to pray
to the old Native American trickster gods,

the coyote trotting across the fields of waving grain,
the bright, crafty eyes of the fox, the sly, thieving crows,

to not see the world in black and white
or spend too much time waiting.