In this town where lawns are trimmed and straight,
Where every house tells an affluent tale,
A figure moves through the quiet night,
Her eyes, a judge with an unerring sight.

She wears her uniform of whispers soft,
Of knowing glances that speak without sound.
Each neighbor feels her gaze like frost on glass,
Chilled by her watch, from dusk till dawn.

"I saw you out," she'll say with icy grace,
"An open window at two in the morn."
Her finger points where shadows meet the light,
"And who is he? A late-night visitor?"

In every door a story hides and waits,
Behind each curtain, truth's soft whispering.
She reads them all, these tales of quiet lives,
A keeper of the peace, an arbiter.

The whispers grow as she circles round,
An unseen hand that shapes this town's control.
For Karen knows what's best for everyone,
What helps maintain its sterling whole.

Each house must be a fortress, not retreat,
No noise at night to shatter street-side peace.
Her word is law; her vigil keeps the calm,
A shield against any unwanted breach.

"An open window," she'll say in passing,
"A visitor at two? We must do better."
The eyes of Karen watch with silent might,
Guardians of this place, its status tight.

So sleepers hush and wake alert to night,
For fear that they will fail her careful gaze.
A town preserved by one unwavering sight,
Where whispers rule the realm of peace and praise.

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