The Girl and the Cherry Tree
She twirls with joy, so light, so free, Barefoot beneath the cherry tree. The breeze plays softly in her hair, The sunlight dances warm and fair. The cherry tree stands tall and wide, Its branches stretch with love inside. It holds her dreams, it hums a tune, A whispered song of sun and moon. She laughs, she climbs, she swings up high, Her fingers brush the painted sky. The world feels vast, yet safe she stays, Enfolded in its gentle gaze.
But time moves on, the seasons flow, The past fades soft like melting snow. The girl she was drifts far away, Her laughter lost in yesterday. Yet every spring, when blossoms rise, Their petals float like lullabies.
Dark cherries bloom in twilight’s air, A taste of love still resting there. The past may fade, the years may fly, Like fleeting clouds in silver sky.
She’s not that child, but she can see— The tree still lives inside of she.
*****
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Rooted Between Two Worlds
A spiritual journey needs no flight,
No distant shores, no blazing height.
No sacred peaks, no western trails,
No ancient chants or whispered tales.
Mine began with cradle’s song,
In Kirovohrad, where I belong.
A land of wheat and endless sky,
Where sunflowers lift their heads up high.
Fields of gold, so warm, so wide,
Cornstalks swaying, side by side.
Cherry blossoms, pale and sweet,
Scattering petals at my feet.
A loaf of bread, a jug of milk,
The tender weave of homeland’s silk.
In that rich soil, my roots grew deep,
A mother’s love, a land’s heartbeat.
But fate would lead me far away,
To where the stars and stripes hold sway.
America, bold, fierce, and wide,
A home that took me to its side.
The United States—so strong, so vast,
Thirty years have quickly passed.
I built a life, I found my way,
Yet part of me could never stay.
For in my soul, a whisper calls,
Through cherry trees and ancient halls.
A voice of Ukraine, soft and clear,
The land I hold forever dear.
And when my final days are done,
When life’s long race at last is run,
Let me rest beneath the tree,
Where my spirit first ran free.
There, in the soil, rich and blessed,
I’ll find my peace, my final rest.
———/////——//— Helen Bond
Вкорінена між двома світами
Духовна путь не потреб��є крил,
Ні далеких берегів, ні зіркових висот,
Ні священних гір, ні західних стежин,
Ні давніх пісень, ні шепоту молитв.
Моя почалась з колискової,
У Кіровограді, що став мені долею.
Земля пшениці й ��еба синього,
Де соняхи тягнуться до сонця рідного.
Поля золоті, широкі, яс����і,
Кукурудза колише листя в ритмі веснянім.
Вишні цвітуть, ніжні й малі,
Осипаючи пелюстки до моїх ніг.
Буханець хліба, глечик молока,
І материне тепло — мов шовкова рука.
В цій землі, родючій і живій,
Коріння моє — в любові й пісні.
Та доля вела мене вдалечінь,
До зоряно-смугастих долин.
Америка — смілива, широка, сильна —
Стала моїм другим домом — родинна.
Сполучені Штати — велич і простір,
Тридцять років, як одна мить, пройшли крізь досвід.
Я знайшла тут шлях, будувала дім,
Та щось у мені не залишилось з ним.
Бо в моїй душі лунає тихий спів,
Крізь вишневі сади, крізь старі домівки.
Це голос України — ніжний, живий —
Моя земля, мій вічний оберіг.
І коли останній день мій настане,
І життя завершиться на земному стані,
Нехай я спочину під деревом тим,
Де вперше дух мій став вільним.
Там, у землі, священній, святій,
Я знайд�� спокій у вічній тиші.
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Closer
She didn’t get a gift for her birthday this year. Not at first. No wrapping paper, no ribbon. Nothing handed over with a smile and a “Happy Birthday.”
Later — quietly, without a word — he handed her a small bottle. No card. Just the gift.
Light of Jerusalem, the label read. A blessing from a faraway place. She unscrewed the cap, and the scent warm, earthy, familiar smell instantly.
She inhaled—and something deep in her chest ached. Tears welled before she understood why.
It smelled like her mother. Like childhood. Like comfort and protection wrapped in invisible arms. Like the way she used to feel safe, without needing to ask why.
He didn’t reach out. He didn’t hold her.
But he looked at her and said, “You are getting closer to God.”
And she knew.
This wasn’t just a gift. It was a message. A sign. A way of saying that something sacred was unfolding — not through words or rituals, but in quiet gestures, in memory, in scent.
She held the bottle tighter.
Not for what it was, but for what it meant: that love could be spiritual. That faith could come gently. That God didn’t always speak loudly.
Sometimes, He just arrived in silence, with a scent you never forgot.
And in a quiet way, that little bottle became her anchor. A link between her past and her present. Between where she came from… and who she was becoming. |
