Month of poetry #6: Winter

It's late and my wrist aches like I'm the first
to hold a pen in centuries. I had raked words
into piles like the dry leaves and twigs
of summer's reaping, then let them spoil into
dank mushroom-fanciers. Rancid undercurrents
festering ripe and sprouting fairy rings of
rote exposition. I cower inkless during winter,
there is nothing rude to shade me from
the goths of near-July. Pick axes slam into picked apart
taxes of snowy white-goods. These are no
flurries of natural season, a freezer is no roof-line
of ice that fell in apology. Throwing June's money
at the cold is hard as a cannonball to resist
unless you are a cannonball. My advice would be
for people not to climb into appliances as if they
chill and boil happiness. They are no points
of power; will not bring back summer where
we wrote and drank white trash in the sun.

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Includes suggestions from:

@timsterne: the dry leaves and twigs of summer's reaping (The Young Desire It, Kenneth MacKenzie)
@_boobook_: it's late and my wrist aches (Lighthouse Girl, Dianne Wolfer)
@sleepingdingo: rancid undercurrents festering
@sushipyjamas: shade me from the goths
@JayJayCee1: unless you are a cannonball (Richard Scarry)
@attentive: fell in apology
@dogpossum: my advice would be for people not to climb into appliances