Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

a handle-less pitch fork, & a stove pipe

Yesterday I journeyed to the hills of Salamanca – they seemed cold & hostile – the town seemed brutally harsh in its flatness – tho having planned to spend two days there, I fled home after a few hours, almost terrified at the inanity of life.

It is the last day of August – the month that I love so much. I cling to it; I hate to see it go – magnificent month the great mystical season of the year—
There is so much sadness – I sit here in my studio and listen to the insect chorus outside – a moist soft wind comes out of the west and rustles the sunflowers outside my door – the one nearest the door has a great shaggy yellow head that hangs down—
I look at a painting I just finished – I recall the dream three years ago that I started it it is so sad that that day is gone