Perfect love

 Birds that usually hover over the park,
Not here no more, not geese, doves, nor lark,
Must be the cold, the ice, winds that blow wild,
Soon spring returns and so a bird, mother and child,
Grass green will be, from beneath the frozen white,
Lovers holding hands find refuge in dark of night,
Youth run around holding on to flapping flying kite,
As sun scorches the world with light so bright,
A perfect scenery set for the perfect love,
As hawks above search for its next dove.