republic of clover – Northcoast Antiquarian

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.

after a blade of grass, grasped by lightning bug

by Donald S. Yarab

I saw it—yes—just there,
in the silence between breaths:
a blade of grass bowed not by wind
but by a single flicker of light,
that tender emissary of dusk—
the lightning bug,
that priest of fire who blesses every meadow.

O you small bearer of green and gold,
what vast wisdom coils within your tiny belly?
What songs do you blink to the darkened world,
what truths do you flash to the blade you hold?

I, too, have grasped the green earth in my palm—
felt its tremble and thrum,
watched a whole summer declare itself
in the way grass leans toward starlight.

Do not speak to me of empires and theories—
tell me instead how the hush after thunder
is where the soul begins,
how the firefly remembers the sun,
and carries its pulse
through the hollows of night.

Here is your scripture:
dew-wet grass,
the pulse of insect wings,
the scent of warm loam rising at twilight—
and yes, the low chant of crickets,
singing hosannas in the key of soil.

I stand barefoot in this republic of clover,
declaring allegiance to the unnoticed:
to the tree frog’s stillness near an old stump,
the clover’s soft petition beneath my heel,
the breeze that forgets no leaf,
the dandelion seed drifting without regret,
the shimmer barely seen,
the flash in the periphery,
the small, bright pulse that stirs the dusk
and reminds me—ah!—I am alive.

For is it not enough to say:
a lightning bug chose a blade of grass,
and that was revelation?