Here is the most beautiful poem I've ever read about this season. (Another sweet one is Keats'--"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.")
This gem is by Richard Wilbur.
Though the season's begun to speak
Its long sentence of darkness,
The upswept boughs of the larch
Bristle with gold for a week,
And then there is only the willow
To make bright interjection,
Its drooping branches decked
With thin leaves, curved and yellow,
Till winter, loosening these
With a first flurry and bluster,
Shall scatter across the snow-crust
Their dropped parentheses.
Isn't it glorious?! The little gold parentheses scattered on the snow...