When your body was preformed and unborn in your microscopic sac, was there a gene to dictate how you’d scale the walls of your crib too soon, because even as a baby you had FOMO?
Or one that granted the ability to translate “No!” into “Yes!” as pumpkins of kings and paupers alike landed at your feet?
I can’t say for certain, but every firing neuron believes in one that gifted a cat’s curiosity along with nine lives, and a dog’s confidence to leap castle walls, lick the prince
and have him offer the throne based solely on how your eyes reel in the moon to hover above the treetops and gently scold the silver river
not to ripple too much, please, because we need to see how the autumn leaves paint by number.
