ha•zel /ˈhāzəl/
noun
- Family Hamamelis. Hazel is not hazel without the witch. Not a common wiccan, “witch” is what her flexible forked twigs depend upon to divine downward as dowsing rods: from the Middle English “wicke” for lively and the old Anglo-Saxon “wych” for bend. Not a witch at all. But a bit of a myth, yes. Used by seers, Witch-hazel is a wound-healer, a spell-caster, an evil-warder. To drink tea from her leaves and branches is sure to heighten your occult powers. Even so. Hazel cannot be hazel when the mighty red maple uproots and falls, crushing her limbs beneath his mighty trunk. For then her wych-y rods can’t find the ground’s under-water. Nor, any longer, can the witch heal that which fell upon her.
- Family Corylus. Hazel is not hazel without the nut. Her extravagant lacy leaf-husks grow clustered and huddled, undercover in the overstory. From the Greek “korus”—the helmet shape of her hardened shell—Hazel’s buttery nuts are the fruit borne on one of seven trees I grow in my yard to feed the birds and squirrels and deer (and me) in winter. The joys and surprise of the hazelnut grow greater every year. First, because they love shade. Second, because they love sun. Third, because—as the ancient Celts always knew—Hazel hangs over the well of wisdom. And, nuts eaten, plumps the sweet kernel of poetic inspiration.
-
Hazel is not hazel without the color of my eyes.
Notes:
~ The phrase ‘plumps the sweet kernel’ is a nod to John Keats’s poem “To Autumn.”
~ “hazel” is one of several nature words culled from the Oxford Junior Dictionary to include technical-oriented words
ash /ˈæʃ/
noun
- Family Oleaceae: the dozens of cousins of late-leafing, sap-to-mead-making trees with furrowed bark and winged seeds called ashen keys who are returning to their ancestor, the ancient Norse Yggdrasil, hallowed Tree of Life in whose vast crown Odin hung nine days unnourished to receive runic wisdom, and upon whose limbs human souls were born.
Boil the ashen keys on a very quick Fire, with vinegar, sugar,
and a little water, and they will become of a Colour green.
- Genus Fraxinus: Latin for lightning, Greek for separation, both from a word for birch which also means spear as ash branches make good shafts; and from Norse “Askr” which means ash tree for the first god-whittled man Odin fashioned from one of her limbs.
- ash, wood: tough, elastic, straight-grained, with supreme bending strength, offering protection against snakes; commonly used for baseball bats, Viking ships, Druid wands, my father’s old rolling hoop-with-a-stick, and the traditional pole of a witch’s broom (but ash attracts lightning so don’t stand under her crown, or fly your broom, during a storm).
But ash new or ash old, / Is fit for a queen with a crown of gold.
- ash, leaves: when leaves of green ash fall and litter a vernal pool, they provide the best-of-all-sustenance for the growth of the wood frog tadpole; next to your bed infuse a few in a bowl of water, sleep, then wake and you’ll need no other healing succor; or lay a bouquet at the crown of your head, sleep and, before you wake, you’ll dream a dream of prophecy.
- Green Ash: crucial habitat tree in critical decline is being supplanted by Red Maples, but as Red’s leaves nourish no tadpoles, as Green Ash goes so will wood frogs likely follow.
But ash green or ash brown, / Is fit for a queen with a golden crown.
- White Ash: the last in my grove was bored silently to death by the emerald beetle—its green no jewel in any ash-crown. With water vessels tunneled dry and honeyed paths to the gods consumed, this ash had little chance to interlink our souls with heaven or under-web our earth with roots; but thanks to some greater Other Wisdom the linked-bell larvae in their turn succumbed (ever so quietly) to the hungry flick of the woodpecker’s tongue.
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ash, ashes: gray remains of logs burned in the Yule fire—with flammable sap, both dead and fresh wood is praised for a mighty blaze on winter nights; but ashes of the ash fire are few, and while the wisdom of ash’s ashes will nourish the roots of her own, alas, there are no ashes apt to survive, so we’ve no new saplings Fraxinus to plant. Let alone feed.
But ash dry or ash green, / Makes a fire fit for a queen.
Notes:
~ The syrup recipe is from Evelyn, circa 1699, liberties taken; “Firewood Poem” excerpts are by Celia Congreve, circa 1930.
~ “ash” is one of several nature words culled from the Oxford Junior Dictionary to include technical-oriented words
Alison Granucci is a Pushcart-nominated poet and naturalist living in the Hudson Valley. Her work is featured in RHINO, Pangyrus, Tupelo Quarterly, American Poetry Journal, Terrain.org, Emerge Literary Journal, Connecticut River Review, Plant-Human Quarterly, About Place Journal, Great River Review, Subnivean, EcoTheo Review, Crosswinds Poetry Journal, Humana Obscura, and The Dewdrop.