In the quiet hum of suburbia’s heart,
Where manicured lawns and picket fences stand tall,
Change whispers through the cracks in this facade,
A specter lurking, waiting for its call.

Neighborhoods shift like tides on sand,
Eroded by the currents of time and trend.
Each wave a story of who stays and leaves,
And what’s left behind, both subtle and absurd.

The old oak tree that once marked summers' start,
Its branches bare now in winter’s cruel art.
A signpost for nostalgia, yet not ignored,
As new homeowners plant their fresh-cut cord.

Curb appeal reigns supreme in this domain,
Where every shrub is pruned to a certain plane.
And where a house's worth is more than stone and wood,
It’s the sense of place that makes each dwelling good.

Yet, in the hush of night when streets are still,
The old whispers louder against their will.
Of parties held and dreams deferred and won,
Echoes trapped beneath the moonlit sun.

Here lies the beauty, the quiet aftermath—
Where progress leaves its mark yet cannot match
The depth of memory that lingers here,
In the hearts of those who hold dear these years.

[Subject Line: Whispering Oaks and Quiet Change]

Warmly,
Karen M. Whitmore
HOA Board | PTA Treasurer | ~Wine Mom~
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