And where the stadium lights and Olympic cauldron burn brightest
thousands descend from the sky
toward a teeming flag waving crowd
(who long so much to fly)
for the one who lit the flame
is there running splendid,
winning, winning gold
for all of us (the nation erupts - a euphoric purge)

And then she stops, sits down on the track

and     takes     off     her     shoes.

In the post race glare of tv cameras
the girl is all flashing teeth, laughter and relief.
A moth flutters by her face
and for a moment she cannot speak
as the delicate feather touch of its body
annoints her forehead, brushes her soul
like a blessed kiss, its pounding wings
beat in a fine mist of her sweat.
A twitch of her head, (the moth has flitted away)
she continues
answering questions

The moth is lifting, (the cameras don't follow this)
higher over the stands,
crammed with fans
carrying the sweat of the girl
ever upwards, into the light,
the flaming cauldron.