No writing on the wall,

but a finger in the soil,

words scribbled.

Their fingers pointed,

stones in hand,

at the dirty woman.

“Faultless ones,

start throwing,

pitch your fit.”

The finger scribe carved

words in the sand,

and the thuds began.

As they lost their grip

and walked away

a woman stood

as Jesus stooped.

“Where’d they go?”

“To wash their hands.”

“Probably so.

Go wash up too

and sin no more.

I’ll gather the stones.”