Where is the clear land

Where is the clear land whose outposts we pen and
crops raise with wishes though some are all edge.
You follow the lines wherever they go, then
your muse snaps the long leash tight when
sufficient’s not enough. But stick around and see
the four-o’clocks you grew with offhand seed
bearing without tending such vigorous bloom
to weep what can’t bear the weather or renew.