There are misconceptions that surround the process of ovulation. This poem was written by a woman doctor; painting the true picture of this wonderful event, popularly called the Big-O.
Like a thief in the night, it comes without warning.
In the midst of a cycle: it is the peak. A pinnacle
That reminds us of one thing:
Our body is a clock, tick-tock-tick-tock.
Out of their shelter and into the wild
The eggs scatter like men who lost their minds.
Each moves randomly, without a purpose.
Each acts wantonly, ravenous until it finds its half.
Two weeks before the gush of blood, it happens:
An ovulating woman living up to her promise.
It is a mystery, not without a trace.
Gentle clues, the existential truth cannot be hard to find.
Subtle signs, small changes, only to the keen and wary:
Slippery discharge, viscid and clear, without a smell, it is airless.
Sometimes a flowing gust of wind or a wet mound.
Coldness that comes before the warmth after.
You may notice that you are supple as a pear,
An open door at the end of a cave down there!
Exquisite pain, lingering pain! Your belly despairs.
Your bosom cries, the lightest of a touch, the purest of a stroke.
There is a certain roundness to you:
Inexplicable, that you are about to burst. A million pieces!
There is a strong desire to love and be loved.
The truth cannot be denied: the moment has finally come.
It’s a gift, a mystery, this celebration of every woman,
God reminding us that we are here for a reason:
The essence of a woman is the promise of a new life
You’re fertile with possibility: the life's story of joy foretold.