Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

Warping white patched boards – angular broken sticks in swamps –One looks for skunk cabbage flowers – (It is the flower of March) beautiful in its rude ugliness – covered with dry slime –Dried mud –; I cross the wide valley –The far off shriek of a locomotive – the vastness of space realized when I see the reunite trail of white smoke coiling along thru the woods – I drank out of a maple sap bucket – if only a man could drink of it and thereby become one with this quickening fire of March –