Home

Well I met you in the morning.
We packed our things and disappeared like ghosts.
We drove for forty hours through the
darkness and the drifting of the snow.
Cuttin' north in North Dakota for
the border and the limits that we know.
And I braced myself for questions--hey,
is that my brother, and where'd that painting go?

Is this my home?
Is this my home?

And that's how we spent our
Christmases--wondering what makes a place a home.
It may not be where my heart is,
but it sure as hell is where my heart has grown.
And if the horse shoe's where the flowers bloom,
the prairies are still where those seeds were sown.
I guess when it comes to it,
it's not where you are but who it is you know.

Is this my home?
Is this my home?

I'm going there.
I'm going there.
I'm going to a better place for you.
There are many beds in many rooms,
and many Sunday hallways to wander through.

Is this my home?
Is this my home?