surmounted by a spire

If you took my journal and stood on the steps of the old courthouse you could make a great big song. There would be words that circled your eyes. Stories that made the birds fly out of the sharp steeple. Loaded paragraphs. A little kid. An old person. The smell of toast. A song you would hum as the cars sped by. Blurry notes. Scribbled lines. I think it would bring the spring. I think spring would come out of your mouth.