When one lives in a coastal chaparral,
The joke is that we only have two seasons:
One dry, one wet, and by that rationale
Our climate is monotonous, and reasons

To shun it are abounding, for the mild
Of winter weakens us when faced with cold,
Expecting it to suit us, like a child,
As if to human wishes climates mold.

Endemic plants cannot hope to compete
With foreign trees and irrigated lawns,
Which means that autumn isn’t obsolete-
Merely that in an instant it is gone.

When fall’s bright fifteen minutes have been spent,
Then comes our frosty hour of discontent.