Token Grove, 2020

At Token Grove,

the tour busses are pulled over

so the tourists can admire

the last of the ancient cedars.

The trees stand behind protective fences,

neatly, in rows, branches clasped to their chests,

their ferns and fronds and

old man's beard neatly combed,

posing prettily for the photographers.

A grandfather, his hand on

his grandson's shoulder,

says, reverently,

"Look, Johnny, these are trees!

When I was a boy, there were a lot of them."

"How many was 'a lot'?" asks young Johnny.

"More than this?"

"Yes, many more. They grew all over this island.

Not behind fences, whole hillsides and acres of them."

Young Johnny: "What's an 'acre'?"

"Well, er, land that has.....land......on it,

earth and grass and trees and growing things.

Land without concrete, without tall buildings,

without expressways, paved lots,

shopping monstrosities, er, malls.......

In those days, I could ride my bike

through the countryside

and see trees everywhere.

And we didn't have to wear these

oxygen tanks then,

because the trees gave us air."

"Wow," says Johnny, impressed.

"No oxygen tanks?

Grandpa, what happened?

And why do they call this Token Grove?"

"Big companies wanted to make big money

and they cut all the trees

and shipped them away,

as fast as they could.

Till the hillsides were bare

and began to slide down

the mountain slopes every rainy season."

"And that's why the mountains are little hills now?"

"Yup. And we call it Token Grove because

these are the only ones that were protected,

and the only ones left on this whole island.

They are rotting now, and soon will fall to the ground

with the winter wind."

"Grandpa, I wish it was like when you were a boy, for me."

"Me, too, Johnny. Me, too."