Frost on My Guitar

The frost on my guitar is beckoning
with such an enigmatic, wistful grin
it prompts me to release the strain within
before that final frigid reckoning
prevents all chances for a healthy crop
whose bounty is a blessing to enjoy.
Why else extend the effort we employ
if not to taste the sweetest nectar, drop
by precious drop, and savor the bouquet?
Of course, there would be certain strings attached,
some pesky thorns have left me sorely scratched
but then again, they must be there to play.
I’ve gained another furrow, now my field
seems ready to produce a yearned for yield.