Pressure is what the loam feels when, buried and dis-tracted, it cannot function right; when it cannot get at the rain and light; when it, by a hellish heat, is harried. When it is not prepared, or preparing, To produce, what it was meant to produce; when its physical makeup is not loose; when it’s sick and tired of temporizing. For what it wants is to produce good fruit; to rise like cream out of that sub-terrain. But who we are is never absolute; and via all this pressure and this pain, solidified like some rare earth-bound loot, it settles by becoming rock again. Reid McGrath is a poet living and working in the Hudson Valley.