Harvest

A few feet high,
planted firmly in the ground,
they stand like sentinels,
these concrete squares.

Every one of them white,
feet apart from one another,
standing at rigid attention
in perfectly straight lines,
hundreds of them,
thousands,
majestically covering the rolling hills,
seemingly awaiting 
a harvest that will never come.

Each one testifying 
a once living soul lies beneath.

Each one a biography.

Each one once born of promise.

Each one once a universe.

For each one, life once revolved.

Selflessly or not, it did.

Each one gathered all it saw,
harvested,

made sense of it,

or not.

And each one moved on.

Each one journeyed,

a path unique to themselves.

Telling a story,

some listening, some not.

For each one, all revolved around them.

Some understood.

Some did not.

Some sought to break free,

think of others,

die for others,

Yet still that life was centered within.

One may leave,
now lie beneath the small stone sentinel,

remembered by others,
as being one of those beings,
revolving and orbiting 
their own unique universe.

These small stone sentinels,
stand for those living,
orbit their universe,
and there does exist a harvest.

The life lived, remembered,
harvested,
orbiting each still living soul,
until the time comes,
to lie beneath the stone sentinel,
added to the rolling hills.