God is the Old Repair Man,
When we are junk in Nature's storehouse he takes us apart.
What is good he lays aside; he might use it some day.
What has decayed he buries in six feet of sod to nurture the weeds.
Those we leave behind moisten the sod with their tears;
But their eyes are blind as to where he has placed the good.

American Negro Poetry: An Anthology (1995)