the first stone

Smooth in my hand
and warm from the sun,
the first stone is heavier than I expected.
And while I look ahead
I also look behind
to the piles of stones that are mine.
Collected, over the years,
along with the bruises
all of them made when thrown.
Each one of them a first,
a smooth giant killer,
thrown by those without a trace of sin.
I want to condemn,
but drop my first stone
into the crystal clear mirror of a stream.