I Was Better At Forgiving

I was better at forgiving 
before I knew how much they'd take:
the words out of my mouth,
the plum out of my cake.

They will take my daughter's
daughter's Christmas snow;
they will take the words grandmother spoke 
for sky and stone and bee;
they will take the bees themselves from home,
till hive and honey, wax and comb 
are scholars' curiosities.

I will never say "I love you" meaning
what I alone would mean:
no, I will make claims
I have no right or strength to make, 
or else I will exclaim,

"I like you very much, 
and I hope that you will thrive,
than dead I'd very much 
prefer that you're alive."

I was better at forgiving
when I thought that I could choose;
I was better at forgiving
before I knew that I could lose.