Nova, Born of Dust and Starlight
You arrived, Nova, wrapped in hush—
A breath so small, the world leaned in.
And suddenly, time folded down
To make space for you to begin.
But before you stretched your fingers wide
Or curled into your mother’s chest,
There lived a girl with prairie eyes
And courage stitched into her dress.
She rode a bareback horse through dawn,
With books and wildflowers in tow—
Her voice was hymn and hammer both,
Her world was cotton, creek, and hoe.
She washed by hand, she laughed through lack,
Carried water, and wartime prayers.
She spun her days in linoleum kitchens,
And hung her hope on clothesline airs.
The radio hummed like a second heart,
As she danced across the floor—
A girl, a bride, a mother, then
A keeper of the war.
She knew the hush of rationed joy,
The hush of dishes stacked with grace,
The hush of loss she never named—
And the hush you now replace.
Because now, Nova, in your cry
She rises—gentle, proud, and bold.
The dust of her clings to your light,
Like fingerprints on gold.
You may never churn the cream she did,
Or watch the coal-oil flame grow thin,
But still, her legacy burns in you—
A fierce new fire within.
Perhaps you’ll code, or climb, or teach,
Write poems or change the tides—
Whatever path your feet may find,
She’ll walk just to your side.
For you are not just miracle—
You are memory come to bloom,
A soul that makes the past make sense,
And the future make more room.
So go, sweet child, with soft new hands,
But know what holds you fast:
You are born of dust and starlight both—
And all the women of our past.
----
Helen Margerete [Wilson] Chapman