Crochet

I'm wondering if there was a storm
out in the ocean over the weekend
that produced these huge waves.

I was here on Saturday
and the ocean was flat
with just foot high slats.

Today they're six feet giants
building, building, falling
into lace, a doily crocheted

by my grandmother. I can see
her hands grasping the hook,
twirling the thin, white thread

over and under, punctuating
each move with her anger, her
dissatisfaction, her mouth a straight line,

creating beauty out of her everyday
disappointments. The sun is warm.
The wind is cool. The waves keep pounding.