Ending Play

Dark, brown, heavy spots lay on a plant this very day, it gives the signal of ending play For a while no light sun, will rest itself and watch others have fun While cold, slick, moisture, and pressure of cold, makes it good for growing mold A time when weather barely has rhyme, a sense that something isn't that fine So the plant bows down, unluckily not under someone's gown It feels rigid, but doesn't shake, an act that others call not possible and fake The plant waits for a chance, being free, though now the eye couldn't really see