Lost poem

I've lost a poem, not a poem of my own, 

not a poem whose lines have wound themselves 

into my soul — but a poem that could own me.

It was fleeting, in my stream for a moment. 

Keep it, the thought flickered, but I swept past. Now

           My hands are bloody from digging...

If I could pull it from the sky even 

one shattered fragment.

Her words, for I am certain it was her words, embedded in her stream. 

Still. I can remember only one word: Dakota

And that it made the ordinary sacred.