In Kathleen Driskell’s new poetry collection, Seed Across Snow, understanding attempts to thaw untended griefs, long dormant.  The book opens with “Overture,” a collage poem that serves as a cinematic trailer for the collection, introducing images which surface more fully in subsequent pages. In colorful lyric and narrative, Driskell’s poems center on recent tragedies surrounding her family’s home in an old church rumored to be haunted—a neighbor nearly killed while fetching her mail, a girl abducted and left for dead on the highway behind her house, the drownings of two boys in a local creek. Poems are bound, too, with old sorrows from her past. Each memory that surfaces while living in the old church with its small graveyard next door, reminds that the most sacred, the family, is also the most fragile.