Coming Home

Coming home to Indiana, Where the cornfields run for miles, Where oak and maple line the streets, And leaves are raked in piles, Across the mighty Wabash, To that place I yearn to be When I think about the memories of home… The thought of coming home, From the journeys where you roam, And no matter how the years have gone, You always know you’re home. The summer sunlight overhead, The desert of Dubai, A burning touch of brilliance, In the topaz glistened sky, But it can’t compare to summers, In the Midwest of my youth, When I think about the memories of home… The icy frozen tundra, And a country painted white, The glaciers of Siberia, Where waters freeze in sight, They are just but a fraction, Of the cold I used to know, When I think about the memories of home… The elegance of Ireland, Is beautifully revealed, By the intricate stone fences, That divide the emerald fields, But these fields are not as perfect, As the yard at grandma’s house, When I think about the memories of home… The rain in Indonesia, In a blinding summer storm, As the tropical depression, In the gulf begins to form, But still they’re far less frightful, Than a twister in the night, When I think about the memories of home… The ocean shines a blazing blue, And sparkles off the sand, From the raw volcanic mountain, On the beach upon Saipan, But I still must say Lake Michigan’s, A shore I’d rather see, When I think about the memories of home… The sycamores and burning leaves, The smell of fresh cut hay, The golden trees and chilling breeze, That crown an autumn day, Forgetting all the things I’ve seen, In travels round the world, When I think about the memories of home… The thought of coming home, From the journeys where you roam, And no matter how the years have gone, You always know you’re home.