Grandaddy's Ice Cream

was hand-cranked, stiff and stubborn, milled in an old
oak bucket, planks of weathered wood bound
by steel. Grandaddy's ice cream still had ice in it, 
was identifiable by its parts, hid nothing, told
all the mysteries of its creation,
chunks of ice pitted, grainy, coated in cream, 
and frozen peaches that shocked us, real fruit,
Peach Ice Cream a list of ingredients more than a recipe,
rough chopped and ground together,
one shoulder locked and clamping that bucket down,
the other arm grinding, occasionally he'd stop
and wipe his brow
and we learned early on
that sweetness was a man's affair.