Weekend Writers' Retreat, my poem

I've never tried this meme before, but Grandma's Goulash and the
Weekend Writers' Retreat  seem to have been going for 34 weeks without me.
Surprise, surprise.
They will probably have to continue without me, too, because this is the only original poem I carry around in my head. I wrote it so long ago I don't remember when, and it has been submitted to more damn poetry contests than I ever knew existed until I sent in my poem.
It never won anything.
Still, I like it. Maybe someone out there in the blogosphere might like it, too, even just a little bit.

Resubmitted Sept. 7 to
"Imaginary Garden with Real Toads"
in answer to the question: Can a poem be like an Impressionist painting?

It is called  Rock Poem...

poets speak
of birds
and trees
and flowers
when Spring comes.
not I —
I love
a rock,
new warmed
by mountain sun,
that in
the night
becomes a
lonely, lost
and windswept cliff,
and then,
at dawn,
the place
where young
Tomorrow is born.

                      — Kay L. Davies © 2011