In His Valley, Still

The mountains hold a silent grace,
Reflected on the water’s face,
A quiet breath, a sacred swell,
Where story, sky, and calmness dwell.

The pines remember, so does stone,
This valley never stands alone.
It speaks in echoes, soft and low,
Of those who shaped its silent glow.

So let the clouds drift where they may,
Let light and water softly play—
For Joe’s Valley is more than lake or land,
It’s memory, carved by steady hand.

The stillness here runs mountain deep,
Where sky and water fall asleep.
A mirror held in nature’s hand,
Reflecting more than sky or land.

And at its heart, a quiet name—
Not etched in glory, gold, or fame,
But one who gave, and stood, and stayed:
Oral Eugene—his mark remains.

Did he walk here in twilight’s hush,
Where cotton clouds in stillness brush?
Did he believe this work would be
A gift of calm for you and me?

The trees bear witness, so does clay,
To hands that shaped the water’s way.
This lake, this light, this sacred span—
They hold the soul of one good man.

No crowds, no clocks, no rush, no race,
Just beauty wrapped in open space,
A holy hush, a sacred view—
Joe’s Valley knows what’s real and true.

DocBott