Dave Bonta's "Finding" is only three short stanzas, but it leaves a lot unsaid. The speaker has gone looking for something, or perhaps stumbled on it, and what they come away with is "nothing but a stone." The poem then repeats the word "nothing" and calls the find "forgetfulness," as if the stone is less an object than an empty space where a memory or a purpose should be.
The turn comes in the last two lines. The speaker heads "to church to own / a little sin." That's an odd, quietly wry thing to do. Confessing a sin seems to be a way of having something, of turning emptiness into a small admission worth holding. The word "little" keeps the tone modest rather than dramatic.
The mood is hushed and slightly mournful, with a dry humor underneath. Judging by the spare wording, the speaker feels a bit lost and wants to fill the gap with something real, even if it's only a minor wrongdoing.