My Betsy, my poet

Betsy came in from playing outside last night, and sat down at the coffee table. She began writing, quickly, quickly. This is what came out:

The Road
(by Betsy, almost 11)

As I sit
amongst the clover
I stare across
the broad, vast arch
to the future.

I rise
with a stone in my hand.
I throw it across
and listen to it clatter.

Then I turn and run
from the broad, vast arch
to the future.

(also included in the Poetry Friday round-up at The Simple and the Ordinary.)