Raindrops after rain

It’s the end of the year
in the backyard again - 
raindrops after rain
have coalesced on the windchimes,
the fence, the hummingbird feeder,
like soft icicles on trees
in crystalline waiting,
like a thousand swords of Damocles.

One lemon fell off the tree this season.
riper than the others by a dozen lemon-years.
Shrouded by leaves and tucked in the back,
it screamed for the next step,
demanded all from its home,
turned too-dark yellow and thudded into the weeds.

When did it die?
When its stem started loosening,
when the last fiber snapped?
When it bruised on impact,
or when it stopped rolling?
When it started to rot in vain?
When I noticed it and couldn’t eat it,
or when I threw it away?
Could it have been as early as
when it started to swell ahead of season?
Could it not bear the winter?
And was that by choice or
its embedded fate?

This morning, the tree is abundant
with lemons that waited.
I pull, some a little underripe,
but that’s hardly an issue
when they’re used or given away.
Sour is easier to swallow than mold,
sour can be sweetened,
what’s dead can only be cut away.

No birds back here right now,
no breeze to disturb what’s dangling in wait.
At the risk of those thousand swords,
and with clairvoyance that
one drop could end it all,
I gently push the windchimes.
Funny how even when I’m the wind,
I still don’t know how the bells will toll.