Some edits

content/and-flowers-wreathe-your-sleeping-form/intro.md

@@ -20,7 +20,7 @@ Our years are delineated by the seasons, though, and the count of them is so few
 
 Or perhaps one thinks across the spiral. One, stuck in Winter, thinks back to Summer --- ah, such warmth! --- and tries to remember what it was one was doing then. "Only silhouettes show / in the billowing snow," Dwale writes {{% cite source="leaves" page="19" %}}. "Remembering months, now / gone when new blooms would grow."
 
-The power of the cyclical nature of the year is of an importance that draws the heart onward, and that which moves the heart is fair game for poetry. The demarcations for this cycle are the two solstices and two the equinoxes. One finds oneself at the longest night of the year and knows that, from there onwards, it is downhill into summer.[^3] One finds oneself at the longest day of the year and before oneself lies cooler times.
+The power of the cyclical nature of the year is of an importance that draws the heart onward, and that which moves the heart is fair game for poetry. The demarcations for this cycle are the two solstices and the two equinoxes. One finds oneself at the longest night of the year and knows that, from there onwards, it is downhill into summer.[^3] One finds oneself at the longest day of the year and before oneself lies cooler times.
 
 Dwale (1979--2021; it/its) was a poet living in the Southern United States. It was moderator for and, for a term, president of the Furry Writers' Guild, and was known for facilitating the 'coffeehouse chats', hour-long lectures surrounding various writing topics that took place twice a week. Its work is described as focusing on "altered states of consciousness...poverty, addiction, subjectivity, and the transience of existence" {{% cite source="dwale" %}}, though to reduce its body of work to any or all of those provides an inexact picture of its writing. This will be touched on in a future section on translation, but needless to say, this paper will focus on its work through the lens of seasonal progression.
 

content/and-flowers-wreathe-your-sleeping-form/summer.md

@@ -85,7 +85,7 @@ It is the act of taking meaning from each other, as well, for each of us has our
 
 As that golden bloom of Summer[^18] defines itself as all things must, and we have to take it at its word. We can kvetch about the insomnia of Summer, that which makes us sweat through the sheets so that the thought of touching someone else makes one feel clammy and disgusting[^19] all we want, but that doesn't mean anything to Summer. It just also doesn't stop us from layering our own definitions atop that.
 
-[^13]: And perhaps your well dries out when you head out of town for you husband's surgery, so your dog-sitters to have to figure out water, leaving you to fret and pace around the hotel room, and maybe that's the time you decide, "You know what? Work is so terrible that I think I'll apply for grad school." But you have to provide a sample of analytic writing to do so, so you pick one of your friend's poems to analyze, and two weeks later --- when you've come home to no water and a dog whose health is steadily declining though you don't know it yet --- your friend is dead.
+[^13]: And perhaps your well dries out when you head out of town for you husband's surgery, so your dog-sitters have to figure out water, leaving you to fret and pace around the hotel room, and maybe that's the time you decide, "You know what? Work is so terrible that I think I'll apply for grad school." But you have to provide a sample of analytic writing to do so, so you pick one of your friend's poems to analyze, and two weeks later --- when you've come home to no water and a dog whose health is steadily declining though you don't know it yet --- your friend is dead.
 
 [^14]: It's 2022 as I write this, which means that, come September, it will have been ten years since Margaras died.