Thinking still about the closing of autumn, I came across this small piece by Tang dynasty poet, Meng Hao.

Autumn Begins

Autumn begins unnoticed. Nights slowly lengthen,
and little by little, clear winds turn colder and colder,

summer's blaze giving way. My thatch hut grows still.
At the bottom stair, in bunchgrass, lit dew shimmers.

The poem is a little masterpiece of absences, the poet only becoming aware, internally and externally, at the turning to autumn. Sounds and sensations bring him back to a still tenuous sense of self. The exterior world of autumn, the beginning of the dying, if you like, reflects the same sense of emptiness of the poet, the Taoist empty mind. It's a translation, of course, and we must necessarily accept it as such. But still, so quietly beautiful.