June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Hays is the Circling the Sun Luxury Bouquet

The Circling the Sun Luxury Bouquet is a floral arrangement that simply takes your breath away! Bursting with vibrant colors and delicate blooms, this bouquet is as much a work of art as it is a floral arrangement.

As you gaze upon this stunning arrangement, you'll be captivated by its sheer beauty. Arranged within a clear glass pillow vase that makes it look as if this bouquet has been captured in time, this design starts with river rocks at the base topped with yellow Cymbidium Orchid blooms and culminates with Captain Safari Mini Calla Lilies and variegated steel grass blades circling overhead. A unique arrangement that was meant to impress.

What sets this luxury bouquet apart is its impeccable presentation - expertly arranged by Bloom Central's skilled florists who pour heart into every petal placement. Each flower stands gracefully at just right height creating balance within itself as well as among others in its vicinity-making it look absolutely drool-worthy!

Whether gracing your dining table during family gatherings or adding charm to an office space filled with deadlines the Circling The Sun Luxury Bouquet brings nature's splendor indoors effortlessly. This beautiful gift will brighten the day and remind you that life is filled with beauty and moments to be cherished.

With its stunning blend of colors, fine craftsmanship, and sheer elegance the Circling the Sun Luxury Bouquet from Bloom Central truly deserves a standing ovation. Treat yourself or surprise someone special because everyone deserves a little bit of sunshine in their lives!"

Peonies don’t bloom ... they erupt. A tight bud one morning becomes a carnivorous puffball by noon, petals multiplying like rumors, layers spilling over layers until the flower seems less like a plant and more like a event. Other flowers open. Peonies happen. Their size borders on indecent, blooms swelling to the dimensions of salad plates, yet they carry it off with a shrug, as if to say, What? You expected subtlety?

The texture is the thing. Petals aren’t just soft. They’re lavish, crumpled silk, edges blushing or gilded depending on the variety. A white peony isn’t white—it’s a gradient, cream at the center, ivory at the tips, shadows pooling in the folds like secrets. The coral ones? They’re sunset incarnate, color deepening toward the heart as if the flower has swallowed a flame. Pair them with spiky delphiniums or wiry snapdragons, and the arrangement becomes a conversation between opulence and restraint, decadence holding hands with discipline.

Scent complicates everything. It’s not a single note. It’s a chord—rosy, citrusy, with a green undertone that grounds the sweetness. One peony can perfume a room, but not aggressively. It wafts. It lingers. It makes you hunt for the source, like following a trail of breadcrumbs to a hidden feast. Combine them with mint or lemon verbena, and the fragrance layers, becomes a symphony. Leave them solo, and the air feels richer, denser, as if the flower is quietly recomposing the atmosphere.

They’re shape-shifters. A peony starts compact, a fist of potential, then explodes into a pom-pom, then relaxes into a loose, blowsy sprawl. This metamorphosis isn’t decay. It’s evolution. An arrangement with peonies isn’t static—it’s a time-lapse. Day one: demure, structured. Day three: lavish, abandon. Day five: a cascade of petals threatening to tumble out of the vase, laughing at the idea of containment.

Their stems are deceptively sturdy. Thick, woody, capable of hoisting those absurd blooms without apology. Leave the leaves on—broad, lobed, a deep green that makes the flowers look even more extraterrestrial—and the whole thing feels wild, foraged. Strip them, and the stems become architecture, a scaffold for the spectacle above.

Color does something perverse here. Pale pink peonies glow, their hue intensifying as the flower opens, as if the act of blooming charges some internal battery. The burgundy varieties absorb light, turning velvety, almost edible. Toss a single peony into a monochrome arrangement, and it hijacks the narrative, becomes the protagonist. Cluster them en masse, and the effect is baroque, a floral Versailles.

They play well with others, but they don’t need to. A lone peony in a juice glass is a universe. Add roses, and the peony laughs, its exuberance making the roses look uptight. Pair it with daisies, and the daisies become acolytes, circling the peony’s grandeur. Even greenery bends to their will—fern fronds curl around them like parentheses, eucalyptus leaves silvering in their shadow.

When they fade, they do it dramatically. Petals drop one by one, each a farewell performance, landing in puddles of color on the table. Save them. Scatter them in a bowl, let them shrivel into papery ghosts. Even then, they’re beautiful, a memento of excess.

You could call them high-maintenance. Demanding. A lot. But that’s like criticizing a thunderstorm for being loud. Peonies are unrepentant maximalists. They don’t do minimal. They do magnificence. An arrangement with peonies isn’t decoration. It’s a celebration. A reminder that sometimes, more isn’t just more—it’s everything.

Are looking for a Hays florist because you are not local to the area? If so, here is a brief travelogue of what Hays has to offer. Who knows, perhaps you'll be intrigued enough to come visit soon, partake in some of the fun activities Hays has to offer and deliver flowers to your loved one in person!

The horizon here does not so much meet the earth as consume it. Hays, Kansas, sits under a sky so vast it seems to mock the very idea of boundaries. The wind is a living thing, a ceaseless sculptor of prairie grass and human temperament. It whips across I-70, past the grain elevators that rise like secular cathedrals, past the low-slung brick buildings downtown where the ghosts of German immigrants still linger in the smell of fresh-baked buns. You can stand on the corner of 10th and Main and feel time’s paradox, the urgent present of students hustling to class at Fort Hays State University, the ancient patience of limestone fossils at the Sternberg Museum, where the spine of a 78-million-year-old fish still curves in defiance of oblivion.

This is a place where the elements insist on collaboration. The soil demands it. The winters test it. The summers, thick with heat and cicada song, reward it. Drive south on Highway 183 and watch the fields stretch out, green-gold oceans of wheat and milo, their rows precise as geometry. Farmers here speak of rain like poets, with a reverence that transcends pragmatism. Their hands, rough from work, will point to the sky and tell you about the storm that missed them by miles but watered their neighbor, about the way a single cloud can carry both ruin and redemption.

Same day service available. Order your Hays floral delivery and surprise someone today!

Downtown Hays wears its history without nostalgia. The Fox Pavilion’s marquee still glows on Friday nights, but now it shares the block with coffee shops where students hunch over textbooks and aerospace engineers debate flyover data. At the Volga German Haus, women stitch quilts in patterns brought from villages their ancestors fled centuries ago. The thread is new. The knots are the same. In the aisles of Duckwalls, a five-and-dime that somehow survives in the age of Amazon, you’ll find teenagers buying candy their grandparents bought, their laughter echoing off the same tin ceiling.

The university hums at the city’s edges, a hive of forward motion. Professors in bifocals and football jerseys debate Kant over lunch at the Hetl Den. Biology students track pronghorn migrations on the plains, their clipboards bristling with data. At night, the campus library glows like a spaceship, its windows revealing silhouettes of athletes, artists, future teachers hunched in carrels, their faces lit by laptops and ambition. The sidewalks here are etched with graffiti, not tags, but equations, quotes from Whitman, the occasional pun about mitochondria.

Community here isn’t abstract. It’s the woman at the post office who knows your box number before you say it. It’s the high school coach who stays late to help a kid master a jump shot, the click of the ball on the pavement keeping rhythm with the sunset. It’s the way the entire town shows up for the Sternberg’s dinosaur exhibits, kids pressing sticky hands to glass cases, their awe a mirror of the scientists who dug those bones from Kansas chalk.

There’s a resilience here that doesn’t announce itself. You see it in the way the trees bend but don’t break in the wind. In the way the old railroad tracks, now quiet, still cut through town like a scar that healed right. In the faces of retirees at the VFW, playing pinochle under fluorescent lights, their banter a mix of Medicare tips and Normandy stories. The past isn’t worshipped here. It’s folded into the daily like sugar in dough, something essential but unspoken.

To leave Hays is to carry its contradictions. The quiet that isn’t silence. The emptiness that isn’t absence. The way the sunset can flood the sky with colors that have no name, then vanish into a darkness so complete it feels less like an end than a promise, that tomorrow, again, the wind will come. The wheat will rise. The people will gather, as they always have, under the infinite Kansas sky, and make a life from what the land gives them.