The smell of fall blooms in the air, drifting like leaves. I’m outside of Sant’Agostino Church in Pesaro, rocking Alex to sleep, leaning against the cool brick façade. This is my second summer living in Italy, the first spent with my newborn son. Summer is winding down, with another season ready to ripen. I can taste the end of summer, the scent of roasted meat, cotton candy on the boardwalk, hot sugared bomboloni sold by the vendors. Soon, vendors will sell chestnuts on the street corners, served piping hot in thick construction paper. Pesaro is a coastal city, swelling with the tides of tourists in July and August, and ebbing with the rhythms of autumn in September. A hint of sadness—nostalgia for the summer months—descends on Pesaro as tourists return home, but a sense of relief also flows through the ancient Roman walls of the city.

At this time of year, I always think of my favorite Keats poem, Ode to Autumn:

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core . . .

Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells . . .

Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

I love the end of summer, the last of the hot, sticky days before the glorious onset of autumn. It also brings a flurry of activity. All summer, large trucks filled with tomatoes crisscross the north and south of Italy, delivering their product to the cities. In late August and early September, Italians are peeling and boiling the tomatoes, canning them for the winter. They’re also making preserves of figs, peaches and plums, to be paired with sharp bites of pecorino cheese. Mid-September in Italy signals the vendemmia, or the grape harvest. Italy is a country covered by vineyards and this is the time to make wine—all the many delicious varieties of reds and whites. Some of our friends pick their grapes, leave them to dry in the sun until they’re almost raisins, and then press them, creating a yellow dessert wine called Vin Santo. In November, olives will be harvested. Large nets are placed under the plants because if even one olive falls, it can bruise the fruit and damage the quality of the olive oil.

The end of summer brings so much promise for the rest of the year. I look up at the fierce blue sky, the thick white clouds bunched like fleece. My son is asleep; I place him in his carriage. We begin our passeggiata along the wide boulevards toward the sea. We’ll be leaving Italy soon, but it will remain with us, always.