Even in death people have an identity of their own. That's what I felt when I read the line of this philosophical poem,
"Each white stone had a story"
If one just stands before these headstones one would know the name and dates of this individual who lay buried on that spot.
Grave yards are also interesting places with a special silence of their own. There used to be one near our house where we lived long ago. Whenever we pass by, we see the "old cemetery" with shining white headstones.
This poem had brought back memories of those days when I used to go visit the cemetery as a child and read the names and observed the different colored and textured stones. I wasn't even aware that it housed dead men and women.
The poet is so right in describing it as "A garden of white headstones"

It flows well with visual imagery.

Write on!