Not other than this

Already Monday, late on a quiet night.
Much coming and going each day, like the wind and rain and clouds and sun.
Yesterday was election day in France, and I voted for the first time. Writing that, I’m wondering what « vote » means… Many people « voted » like I did, many did not, still others did not « vote » at all.
April showers bring May flowers, as we say.
I suppose the best thing I can say about anything tonight is that my certainty in the uncertainty grows.
I suppose I could also say poetry is not other than this.
Or as a poet wrote:
« La poèsie est sans réponse –
océan sans fin
elle se noie
dans un coquillage »
(Anise Koltz, « La poèsie c’est autre chose »)
translation:
« Poetry is without response –
endless ocean
it drowns
in a shell »