the giant sequoia is not bulletproof

a poem

the giant sequoia is not bulletproof,
no, but are bullets even in the realm of
ancient beings?

of elders who 
were here before us &
our specific trait of fear,
of children who will be here long after?

tell me, 
what use are bullets to each other's 
tender skin?

answer me,
why would you use a saw
on silk?

the thing about being alive is
we bleed
the thing about being soft is
we can grow back 
like the dewdrop buds on sister sequoia's fingertips

unlike their steel armour:
once it shatters, it shatters, and 
even iron can alchemise 

they despise our
sensitive roots, 
our persistent disputes, but
given time, we can
burst the chan link, 
crack the concrete, 
us patient perserverers,
us gentle giants

so slot your silencers,
even as you tremble

i know you're afraid,
know that's okay

know at any time you can 
sheath your sword,
bury your bayonet,

know 
that our vulnerability 
is not something to harden,
but to layer and layer,
like quilts over blankets over sheets,
you're never too old to be tucked in

know we are made strong by the sinews of sensitivity,
that at the end of the day,
since the beginning of time,
we have always been made of the same, shimmering stardust,
growing back again & again,

and that is why there is no use for bullets