there must be a name for that

the waffles and waffles and waffles
with the rum-casked maple syrup
to pour on top
while the fire in peter’s fireplace crackles
and he brings out the stack of christmas books
that we page through
and read aloud from

the sun
finally breaking out
as it gets low enough to show
under the bank of clouds
that have covered the sky all day
before it dips into
there must be a name for that i say
to juniper in the train seat beside me
a name for when the sun finally breaks through
that place between the clouds and the horizon