There is no substitute for it, you know;
It doesn’t grow on trees, or wait,
Like opportunity will, for you
To make a stab or take a chance.
Just what it is, is hard to say;
At least, descriptions formed by words
Most often tend to miss the mark.
It doesn’t fit well in a box.
It isn’t what you think it is;
Besides, it’s not so stuck in time
That mere conveniences apply
Nor easy labels stay affixed.
There is no substitute for it; and yet,
Its absence most won’t even note.
Like air, that seems so commonplace
Until it’s missing from your throat.