Yellow makes a play for green among the rows of some poor farmer's field outside the Memphis city limits' northern edge. A D. J. plays The Day He Wore My Crown, not knowing it entices into tears this woman never once disposed to travel the holiday before. My children squander unleavened bread brought forth from Taco Bell. What sacrifice of mine could be worth mention? Enshroud it. Christ's is death enough to mourn. Casino Aztar, Blytheville slide from view, their souvenir and deli stations yielding to miles of scrub-packed, newly-cultured meadow -- the man beside me rushed at the expense of all around him. Gripped by sentiment at being once again in this, the country his innocence absorbed, he sings the songs of artists prone to praise the great Midwest, prodigal farms and wheat. My eyes are burning. An eighteen-wheeler whip has somehow managed to drive his truck straight up a grass embankment which rises to an overpass ahead. It lingers there, a sacrament of chrome, as I make peace at length with pink crape myrtles, white baby's breath in bloom, whose counterparts have two months past surrendered back at home. How long were they bent down, exhausted, jealous for what could not be theirs, before they fell? And did the lilies of Gethsemane cry out with all their strength for God's relent, or were they sweetly mute as these I see?