Mares' Tails and Trumpet Flowers

The road to work bestrews the blue
Skies with silly clouds repeating
Patterns, bewitching similarities,

The one aspect of the infinite
Differentiation that fools us
Into believing some things

Are, stay the same. They aren't.
They don't. Nothing is coterminous
With itself, much less identical

To anything else. Hence,
No time like the present is
The present. Likenesses, never

Identical likenesses, are receding
And shifting into an infinity
Of finities, indignities forever,

All you, always, except when none
Of you, ever, were. The road
Home or to bed, at least, from work

Shows emptied skies
Of different hues. Explanations are
Easy. Predictions are harder.