I thought to post this poem for the sake of comparison. This is because it exhibits the selfsame tropes that this experiment showed could be effectively eschewed in writing about Autumn.
Autumn
The rusty leaves crunch and crackle,
Blue haze hangs from the dimmed sky,
The fields are matted with sun-tanned stalks —
Wind rushes by.
The last red berries hang from the thorn-tree,
The last red leaves fall to the ground.
Bleakness, through the trees and bushes,
Comes without sound.
~ Joan Mitchell