Westbound on Detroit Road, Thursday afternoon— the sun at last undoing what the week of hard cold had locked, wind finding purchase in limbs long held numb.
At the light, I was made still beneath the oaks that rise above the church, their upper branches clearing the roofline, where dozens—perhaps hundreds— of narrow arms were lifted, bending back, then forward again,
not in time, not together, yet not alone— each answering the wind along its own brief arc.
I searched for the word: rhythmic—too orderly; swaying—too mild; dancing—too deliberate.
No. This was something else.
An ecstatic murmuring— as of congregants when a current passes through them, not taught, not rehearsed, each moved according to its measure, yet taken up into one trembling praise of what simply is.
Every morning of late, when I step outside and survey my small parcel of earth around the sixth hour, I am greeted by a quiet republic. The lawn, though tamed in patches, has yielded here and there to flourishing clover, and amidst this gentle sprawl, the early risers—the rabbits—make their appearance. They bound lightly through their meadow-realm, untroubled by the weight of human concerns.
The poem which follows is inspired by the above and a line from my recent poem, Summer’s Surest Guide, in which I reflected on a single lightning bug, bowing a blade of grass beneath its small, radiant body. In that poem, in particular, I spoke of standing barefoot in the Republic of Clover, declaring allegiance to the unnoticed—those quiet, living moments that affirm our being.
This latest poem expands on that idea—an ode to the small republic I witness each day in my own backyard.
A Rabbit in the Republic of Clover in Cleveland, Ohio. Photograph by the Author, 2025
Ode to the Republic of Clover
By Donald S. Yarab
I. Beneath the sober sky of men and their grim affairs lies the Republic of Clover, unconquered, unperturbed, a verdant sovereignty where no flag flies, yet freedom dances on every stem.
II. Here, the rabbits are princes of lightness, bounding with the grace of unspoken decrees, their courts held in morning silence, their triumphs measured by joy alone.
III. I walk, barefoot, unadorned, an uninvited guest granted quiet citizenship, each step sinking into softness, each toe anointed by dew, by life untroubled by task or time.
IV. The bees, those solemn emissaries, chart invisible paths from bloom to bloom, carrying the golden commerce of summer with no need for treaties, no hunger for dominion, only the rhythm of the sun and the pull of sweet fragrance.
V. And overhead, the butterflies perform their gentle ballet, wings painted in festival colors, gliding upon invisible currents, while from time to time, robins, wrens, and cheerful chickadees descend from their sky-gabled realms to rest upon these humble fields, chirruping briefly, then flitting on, light as thoughts untroubled.
VI. And in these small republics, stitched together in fields, in backyards, at the edge of forgotten lanes, the world smiles again—not in the grandiloquence of monuments, but in the humble confederacy of clover, where joy is law, laughter the unspoken anthem, and every footstep is a vote for wonder.
VII. Blessed be the clover, green banner of quiet gladness; blessed be the rabbits, fleet couriers of delight; blessed be the bees, artisans of golden abundance; blessed be the butterflies, dancers in the cathedral air; blessed be the birds, brief pilgrims of feathered grace. And blessed be the bare foot, the open palm, the unguarded heart— for in this gentle republic, joy requires no conquest, only presence, and the simple, smiling gift of being.
Northcoast Antiquarian 