I greet my father late one winter's day.

The miles and years have come between us so;

I've grown so much and feel myself so wise,

My life he cannot comprehend or know.

 

He'd always seemed so large, a mythic god,

And guided me with strong unbending hand,

That it seems strange to be as equals now.

We sit together, talking, man to man.

 

When I was just a child he seemed like OZ:

the Wizard, spewing thunder, flames, and fear.

Those cold commands that issued from on high,

And I, the Lion, cowering when near.

 

But now he's older, and a little frail.

His wrinkled frame, the thinning of his hair--

The Wizard he no longer seems to be,

But just the man behind the curtain there.

 

He offers to me courage, brains, and heart,

To keep me strong wherever I should roam.

How can he know the gift I yearn for most?

Like Dorothy, I want to go back home.