Menhir

Squat granite sentry,
steady, lichen-kissed.
Its shadow clean, black.
Fumbling with the camera,
your man strikes me
as incapable of mirth
or self-deprecation.
I vacillate
between pity and hate.
For his sake
I wish us all
back on the road.
I would return alone
to this greening wasteland
some winter's dawn
when I might hear
rocks veritably explode --
pop open along instant,
God-struck seams --
audible from as far away
as Tahoe.  Maybe a spring
will well up then;
in such an event
I hope to drink
the freshwater tears
this earth cries
for our forgotten.