Charles Burchfield, Journals, January 23, 1932

It is more “winter”(negation—void—absence of life) without snow than with—In January on bright snowy days, there is a vital quickening in the air and sunlight, that already smacks of March fire, but now with no front even in the soggy ground—no wind—an impenetrable blanket of cloud hanging over the soggy ground—no wind—an impenetrable blanket of cloud hanging low over the earth as if to smother it—dead weeds and grass uncrushed by snow—trees wet and black—a dense milky haze pervading the air, accentuating the distances between objects, between planes, there is an unutterable melancholy, a complete negation that is overwhelming—it seems as if at last the earth, and all things in it stood still and would never “move” again—never quicken again but moulder with a long, dawn out decay and reversion to earthly material—I stand spellbound, unable to move for the power and wonder of it.

Charles Burchfield, January 23, 1932