《钟鼎山》
和平岛
几乎每晚做梦
玛丽和里斯伉俪，是我的土著朋友
送给我一张捕梦网
只需高悬头顶
就是噩梦
最好的守门员
我将它挂在后院角落
紧挨的两株红皮神木
虬曲如龙的枝干
煞是好看的两根图腾
偶尔，栖息的横斑林鸮
是守门的智者
他的头，竟旋转360度
门，轰然洞开
一只巨大的青铜鼎
屹立山巅
缓缓转动的三足
你也知，这山
就是John Dean Park省立公园
我搬来两年后
恢复了土著名字
ȽÁU,WELṈEW̱
意思是，“大洪水的避难所”
先民们把独木舟
系于山顶的红皮神木
而得救——
诺亚方舟的土著版
大禹治水的典故
穿越时空的浪
我把John Dean，谐音化为“钟鼎山”
跌宕起伏的纹理
神木红皮的修饰
黑尾鹿，美洲狮，横斑林鸮，白头鹰，云雷，凤鸟，盘龙，诸般兽面纹
锦绣的山河，便有了故事——
它崛起于1.5亿年前
太平洋大洋板块，向大陆的俯冲
与碰撞
又被第四纪冰川打磨
成羊背石
花岗岩的穹顶
堆积的冰碛土
为一万年前的大洪水留下的淤泥覆盖
于今，长满了蓝色卡马斯
根茎的馈赠
曾温饱过一个古老的族群
大片大海的蓝，热烈，奔放，香气浓郁到
John Dean，张开双臂
热情拥抱
前来的所有游子
这就是我家
神秘的后花园
我独爱的兰花，处于阴湿的角落
默默散发着沁人心脾的空谷幽香
我梦到
把蓝色卡马斯的根茎，花朵，和兰花整株
投入巨鼎
慢火，煎煮
一道绝佳的药膳
一缕修复基因乱码的仙气
专治这个时代，焦虑、无眠、噩梦
0与1的数字洪流
冲散的魂魄
其实，秋兰为佩的香草诗人
他的祖传秘方，并非不可解封——
本土文化与东方哲学之“乱炖”
三足鼎立的多元文化
微妙之平衡
而他的楚辞巫术，也因此
完成了，从
漂木
独木舟
诺亚方舟
龙舟
到中流击水
一条龙
完美的转型
您，有没有感觉
钟鼎山
又被抬高了几分
注：
红皮神木：Pacific Madrone (Arbutus menziesii)
蓝色卡马斯：Blue Camas Lily
The Tripod Peak
By He Ping Dao
Almost every night, in the realm of dreams,
Mary and Rease, my Indigenous friends,
Gifted me a dreamcatcher.
"Hang it high above your head," they said,
"And it shall be the finest gatekeeper
Against the nightmares."
I hung it in a corner of the backyard,
Nestled between two Pacific Madrones,
Whose crimson trunks writhe like dragons—
Two stunning totems, where occasionally,
A Barred Owl comes to perch.
A wise sentinel of the threshold,
His head swivels a full three hundred and sixty degrees,
Until the gates swing thunderously open,
Revealing a colossal bronze Ding—a tripod vessel,
Towering upon the summit,
Its three legs rotating in a slow, celestial orbit.
You know this mountain, too;
The world calls it John Dean Provincial Park.
Two years after I moved here,
It reclaimed its ancestral name:
ȽÁU,WELṈEW̱.
It means "Place of Refuge from the Flood."
Where the ancestors moored their canoes
To the crimson Madrone trees atop the peak
And were saved—
An Indigenous version of Noah’s Ark,
An echo of Great Yu taming the waters in the East.
Across the waves of time and space,
I transfigured "John Dean" into the homophonic "Zhong Ding"—The Tripod Peak.
The rugged textures of the ridges,
Adorned by the Madrone’s scarlet skin,
Become motifs of black-tailed deer, cougars, owls, and eagles,
Interwoven with thunder patterns, phoenixes, dragons, and ancient masks.
This majestic landscape now breathes with a story—
Born a hundred and fifty million years ago,
From the subduction and collision
Of the Pacific Plate against the continent.
Polished by Quaternary glaciers
Into a roche moutonnée,
A granite dome capped with glacial till,
Then layered with silt left by the Great Flood 10 millennia ago;
Today, the mountain meadows are carpeted
In the blue of the Camas.
This gift of bulbs
Once nourished an ancient people through the winters.
A sea of blue—passionate, unrestrained, so fragrant
That John Dean himself seems to throw wide his arms,
In a warm embrace
For every wandering soul who returns.
This is my home,
A mysterious back garden.
My beloved orchids, tucked in damp, shaded corners,
Silently exhale a fragrance that haunts the hollow valley.
In my dreams,
I gather the Camas bulbs, the blossoms, and the entire orchids,
And cast them into the Great Tripod.
Over a slow, patient fire, I brew
A supreme medicinal tonic—
A wisp of immortal vapor to repair the garbled codes of our DNA.
A cure for this era’s anxiety, sleeplessness, and nightmares,
For the souls scattered
By the digital torrents of zeros and ones.
In truth, the poet of fragrant grass, adorned with autumn orchids,
Has a secret ancestral recipe, never truly sealed—
A "slow-cooked stew" of local culture and Eastern philosophy,
A delicate balance
Of the three-legged tripod of multiculturalism.
And his wizardry of the Songs of Chu
Has thus completed a metamorphosis:
From Driftwood,
To Canoe,
To Noah’s Ark,
To Dragon Boat—
To striking the currents midstream.
A single, undivided Dragon
Has achieved its perfect transition.
Do you not feel it?
The Tripod Peak
Has been raised a few inches higher.
