What is that gentle art,
whereby one road emerges,
among the symphony of many attractions,
and instead of confusion or the dispersed energies
of a wheezing wanderer that chances every opportunity,
I learn the focused attention of the master,
the skill of doing one thing and doing it well,

Prudence is that noble virtue,
That moves from standing in awe at the plethora of the forest,
To allowing the eye to be moved by the tree,
Able to see extremes and discover that golden median,
that savory sweet spot in which the taunt energy
of applying just the right amount pressure to the bow string
and so to prepare the arrow for flight
with the strength of a lineman and the grace of a ballerina,
the hand of the expert
who sees the answer built into the fabric of his body,

How do I learn this skill, give me the formula
whereby I can memorize and apply this gentle art,

Now, beloved, you are mistaken,
This art is the fruit of experience, it must be carefully discovered
through that death to self which is the most embarrassing,
the willingness to take measured risks
and to suffer the humiliation of many errors, many faults,
a heart that learns to fall with grace,
like the balanced acrobat who must first overcome the fear
of falling and so learn to fall in such a way so as to return
to the practice,

Two kinds of people are the enemies of prudence,
The fearful, cautious soul that never takes any risk that matters,
least of all the risk of beauty, as the Poet says,
and the other who is filled with such foolhardy confidence,
that his failures bear no fruit, the one who lacks introspection.

So what should I do?

Makes friends with silence, he will teach you all thing.