Snow to Rain, Washed

I don't know where I have been or can't say, the summer swallowing me whole, the fall tolerating me, but now the snow is back, the reflection of light, though I don't think to write until today, when the rain returns, takes what snow has covered the dying ground and washes it away, no reflection but gray, and where are you my friend? Heading toward or away. Some snowstorm in the distance. A scarf around my eyes--I can hardly see, Bentley, in my homemade darkness, my hand, open, waiting for the temperature to drop, for the snow to accumulate in my palm, amongst my life line, other nameless lines, waiting for whatever light can come in winter. And I'm in love, again, Bentley--the only way, really, to prepare for dusk in the afternoon, for ice on skin, for the whiteout, coming. Yes?