(Inspired by the painting Congress of Peoples for Peace by Frida Kahlo)

Debris, like ticker tape confetti,
still floats in the air, 
as the camera lens captures
a young mother’s silhouette,
protective hand holding her half-moon curve.
I spot the side of her cheek and eyebrow
dotted with streaks of blood,
where shards of glass or wood must have 
swept past her, mercifully missing 
her vulnerable nest within.

A Frida Kahlo painting appears on my screen,
while breaking news continues to drone.
Both moon and sun spheres glow on the canvas.
The tree of life, bursting with oranges,
grows before my eyes.
A mother hen sits impossibly on top,
as if keeping eggs warm on the highest branch.

The little girl’s song in the shelter 
lingers from last night, 
stays with me, as I walk through the house.
I hear her honeyed, hopeful voice 
even as I fall asleep. 
Her letting go of sound, word, voice, outcome
is the bravest note I have ever heard.

We sing ourselves into a new day,
an insistent melody
where sound itself holds the promise
of survival,
proof that beyond the bombs and tanks overhead,
rooted in the cellar of Ukraine’s earth,
is a chorus of people who believe.