kernels and beacons


In the summer, flowers grow to their peaks, reaching with arms outstretched towards the sun. Daffodils orient theirselves towards the horizon, ruby red roses transform into a beautiful burgundy.

In the fall, these arms grow weary, slowly (but surely) falling to the flower’s sides as the entire plant wilts. The flower has spent all summer looking up at us, now the head has drooped.

In the winter, flowers hardly see the sun, and they hang onto the oversaturated soil for dear life. This is not a good time to be a flower.

In the spring the flower is pollenated yet again, rising from the ashes of a brutal winter; they are the phoenixes rising from ashes we wish to be. Every flower comes out to play; wildflowers cover nearly every square inch of green pasture, daffodils and daisies plume outward, the dandelion prepares its pores for a child to pluck and blow upon, even the ruby red roses return for another round.

There is beauty in every part of the process. I’d just like to capture it all.


It is raining at about 1:55 AM. There is a lighthouse overlooking the sea from atop a cliff. The cliff is surrounded by jagged rocks, which I don’t see. I keep sailing.

Suddenly, I am terribly aware of the rocks, as one of them sears my boat on the starboard side. I abandon ship and swim towards shore. Fighting the tides with every ounce of strength I can muster, I find land. For just a moment, I look up at the night sky, in awe at the beauty and enormity of this world, and my role in it. This shakes me, but I still find my way to my feet.

I stumble towards the lighthouse. A middle-aged man opens the door and drapes a blanket over me. He offers me a cup of tea, which I drink while sitting in front of his fireplace. My ship is wrecked, I am soaking wet and freezing. In the morning, I’ll have to forage a new way home. But for this moment, I am okay.

Like what you read? Give Joe Serrato a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.