Home is like an artist who uses different strokes.
Laughter in the kitchen,sharing a few jokes.
Sunny skies in August, golden, living sands,
Feeling free, yet sheltered by an unseen healing hand.
Home's the smell of cooking on a winter's afternoon,
wonder on kid's faces when they see their first balloon.
Baby in December, melting flakes of snow,
here's the key, the One who's tender touch I've come to know.
Home is where the heart is, from here I will proceed.
Home is as an artist, who satisfies a need.
Sentimental journey, of this I will confess,
for nothing brings me greater joy than home, my happiness.
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