I'm not really into criticism of poems, but you can if you'd really like to.
I'm not a great poem writer but it came to mind.
As a matter of fact it's very rare I write one.
I'm not quite sure it follows any poem rules anyway.
Like a rock to a feather,
sit and watch,
the feather drifts in the wind, move about the colors
the gentle way it breezes,
for a child might see this
and pick it up to treasure,
and say this must have been made for me
improbable that they'd see that this is untrue,
the feather belonged once to the bird
it hasn't been made for you
but why does the rock matter
for you don't think of it much
no one would take a picture of this boring rock
nor marvel and speak of it's beauty
but why should they,
for the feather was beautiful
you said "it just seemed like it was made for me"
but then why is the rock here and in my path
it sits, it's dull, ugly in every way
for you'd said it wasn't made for me
though when one must stop to realize
nor was the feather