Pruning is not conquest. It’s a negotiation with biology. It should be a conversation across seasons. And the blade should be an instrument of guidance — never of amputation . Every winter the cycle repeats: trees pruned down to stubs, their silhouettes reduced to skeletons against the sky. Owners look on, wincing but resigned, convinced this is what stewardship demands. They’ve been told it’s gospel. They’ve been sold on myth. But in summer the truth appears. Instead of fru
