Four lines and a one-word title are enough to stage a small drama of revival. The title does the clever work: "Rekindled" is the only place where fire is named. The poem itself never says flame or ember, only "sparks," so the reader has to put the two together, much as you build a real fire, starting with something tiny and hoping it catches.
The first couplet gives the morning a body and an intention: "the morning got close to you / with many sparks." The verb is plain and almost conversational. Morning doesn't "break" or "dawn" but "got close," the way a person leans in, or the way someone crouches to a fire that is only just taking hold. The phrase "with many sparks" can attach to the morning itself, perhaps light flashing off frost or water, or to the "you" who is being approached and perhaps catching alight. The poem doesn't choose, and the ambiguity helps. The scene can be read as weather, as a person waking up to feeling, or as both at once. We are also never told who "you" is. Judging by the intimacy of the address, it could be a lover or a friend, but it could equally be the speaker talking to himself.
The second couplet shifts grammatically. "You" gives way to "ourselves," and what began as something done to one person becomes shared. The phrasing is odd and worth slowing down for. "Ourselves as we were again" is not the ordinary "we were ourselves again." The reflexive pronoun stands as a thing in its own right, a version of the pair that can be glimpsed and recovered. "As we were" looks backward, and "again" echoes the prefix of the title, so the idea of return is planted twice. The poem doesn't say what happened in between, whether a cooling, a distance or a silence, but the word "rekindled" implies the fire had gone low. The reader fills in that gap.
Then comes the most important choice in the poem: "might sing." Not "will sing," and not "sang." The modal verb keeps the revival in the realm of possibility. This is a poem about sparks, not a blaze, and it is honest about that. There is a pleasing sound-link too. Fire crackles, and the spitting "sparks" at the end of the first couplet turn into "sing" at the end of the second, as though noise were becoming voice. Soft s-sounds run through the poem ("sparks," "ourselves," "as," "sing") and give it a faint hiss, like kindling beginning to take.
The form is as pared down as the sentiment. There is no rhyme and no punctuation, and everything is lowercase, which makes the poem feel unforced, almost murmured. The rhythm falls into a pattern of long line, short line, twice over. "The morning got close to you" runs to about three beats, and "with many sparks" tightens to two. The second pair repeats the move more sharply, ending on the two-syllable "might sing," the shortest line of all. The poem thins out as it goes and finishes on a note held open rather than resolved. With no full stop to close it, the singing hasn't happened yet. Line breaks add small tricks of their own. Because "again" sits at the end of a line, "again / might sing" can be read as a sentence in its own right, suggesting that the singing itself would be a return, not just the selves.
Nearly all the words are short and ordinary: "got," "close," "many," "sing." Only a few run to two syllables, and the largest idea, getting oneself back, is carried by the humblest vocabulary. That restraint is what makes the poem worth reading. It trusts the white space between the couplets to do the work of the pause between spark and flame, and it trusts the reader to supply the loss that makes the recovery matter.
For a student, the poem shows how much a title, a single verb and a line break can do. It has a complete arc in miniature: an approach, a recognition, a possibility. It also shows that hope written quietly can be more convincing than hope announced. The poem doesn't promise that the fire will take. It only says that the morning came close and that something might sing.