The Stairs of Separation

On the morning ferry to Ellis Island
the biting Fall wind ran across the Hudson
to sting my face with a pitiless slap.
Warm, standing at the end of the great hall,
looking down the steeply descending stairs.
Pondering the rise and tread of the steps,
the stone as dark as the human narrative.

Three flights, with no landings or switchbacks.
Reaching down to touch the grey granite steps,
with random tracks of black grain, worn smooth.
Here, so many left behind all they knew,
stepping into an uncertain future,
fearful, with only their enduring courage
and self-belief to draw them forward.

Cast iron, the banisters too strong to show
where families, friends, and those alone
passed wearily with strained optimism.
The faltering breath of anticipation
and anxiety has long since dissipated,
evidenced only by shiny well-worn stairs
and the graphite ghosts of old graffiti.