In these quiet halls, hormones hum like bees around a sunlit hive,

The body keeping time with a patient, precise music.

Cycles are tides—moon-touched, predictable, insistently new—and the map unfolds without a map makers hand.

Ovaries: two small orchards tucked in the hush of bone and blood,

where eggs begin as possibilities and then wake or drift to sleep again.

FSH, LH, estrogen a chorus moving in and out of rooms unseen,

signaling openings, closings, the soft insistence of chance.

Cycles arrive like seasons, return like old friends with scripts of caution and renewal —

a calendar made of flesh, a garden that remembers.

The uterus holds steady, a field unopened or prepared to yield.

Lining gathers its quiet inventory— thick, then thins, then restarts—

a monthly oath spoken with the rustle of tissue and the hush of breath.

If no seed sings true, the walls loosen, a soft, patient shedding,

clearing space for the next chapter, the next possible chapter.

Outside, male systems ride their own weather: testes, a furnace tempered by time,

where sperm are formed in a patient, careful patience.

Ducts become rivers, course held by memory and function,

and testosterone writes the script —

growth, direction, a craft honed in silence.

The body, in its stubborn normalcy, keeps a rhythm— hops of vitality, the push and pull of need, the call and response of energy.

Then the moment— an almost shy collision, a whisper of fate and chance:

A cell reaches for another, a quiet meeting that might redraw a line on a map.

DNA threads its delicate lace, and the world opens up in a breath held and released.

Not every touch becomes life, not every life begins with a chorus;

consent and chance, a ledger kept in secret chambers of the body and the world.

So I speak of melodies rather than mechanics,

of time as a patient conductor:

The clock and the garden, working in tandem, day after day.

The systems sing in chorus, each a part of a larger scale where life can bloom, or wait, or begin again —

a pulse of possibility, a cadence of care,

the body’s hidden orchestra, playing on.