My childhood recollections of Pennsylvania winters are of perpetual gray skies and brown lawns. I have come to visit my mother in Pittsburgh. It is March, but still winter. Patches of gravel-dirty snow dot the ground and heap the parking lots. It’s above freezing, but after the late balmy weather in Portland I am COLD. After several days of gray, the sky finally clears. I find a window with a glimpse of greenery, and paint the hope of spring.