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Mañana
The twanging and tinkling
 of guitars surrounded us
 with the pungent aroma
 of California grapes—
 the moon was tawny and obese
 and the stars hung low,
 glowing like Japanese lanterns;
 you kissed me 
 and whispered in my ear,
 “Mañana.” The word to me
 was dulcet as the 
 melodious music of guitars.
 “‘Everything’ll be all right tomorrow’,”
 you promised.
 “Mañana,” I repeated, 
 as the guitars strummed in agreement.

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