Riddle me this, 'In autumns golden glory?

I will tell you a story, about how the pavements are never really swept clean. 

Because in winters frozen leaves, like seen to them, ice also sticks but never leaves. 

And that in springs pretty fling, 

Neither do birds cease to sing and lay nests, and pick insects while tweet tweeting in the trees. 

And that in summer golden sun there is a blue sky with no name, layed back in the grass gazeing up holding hands where hearts join by lost comets in the sky.