On the cold November sidewalk
lookin’ through the rusty fence,
I stand and watch a nighthawk fly
across the dusty Pennsylvania moon.
Oh, how the wind blows
through the weeds and broken windows
of The House...
that used to be a home.

I remember holidays and picnics on the lawn,
winters by the fire,
and lazy summer nights, and songs.
We laughed together ‘til we cried,
back when love still lived inside
The House...
that used to be a home.

And now we’re nearly strangers
as I find you here again,
searchin’ for the words to say the things
that we said then.
The old front door’s blown open wide.
Seems to call us back inside
The House...
that used to be a home.

Maybe we’ll find holidays and picnics on the lawn,
winters by the fire,
and lazy summer nights,
and songs.
And Maybe we’ll find love again
if you and I just walk right in
The House...
that used to be a home.