June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Covington is the Be Bold Bouquet by Better Homes and Gardens

Introducing the Be Bold Bouquet by Better Homes and Gardens floral arrangement! Blooming with bright colors to boldly express your every emotion, this exquisite flower bouquet is set to celebrate. Hot pink roses, purple Peruvian Lilies, lavender mini carnations, green hypericum berries, lily grass blades, and lush greens are brought together to create an incredible flower arrangement.

The flowers are artfully arranged in a clear glass cube vase, allowing their natural beauty to shine through. The lucky recipient will feel like you have just picked the flowers yourself from a beautiful garden!

Whether you're celebrating an anniversary, sending get well wishes or simply saying 'I love you', the Be Bold Bouquet is always appropriate. This floral selection has timeless appeal and will be cherished by anyone who is lucky enough to receive it.

Better Homes and Gardens has truly outdone themselves with this incredible creation. Their attention to detail shines through in every petal and leaf - creating an arrangement that not only looks stunning but also feels incredibly luxurious.

If you're looking for a captivating floral arrangement that brings joy wherever it goes, the Be Bold Bouquet by Better Homes and Gardens is the perfect choice. The stunning colors, long-lasting blooms, delightful fragrance and affordable price make it a true winner in every way. Get ready to add a touch of boldness and beauty to someone's life - you won't regret it!

Carnations don’t just fill space ... they riot. Ruffled edges vibrating with color, petals crimped like crinoline skirts mid-twirl, stems that hoist entire galaxies of texture on what looks like dental-floss scaffolding. People dismiss them as cheap, common, the floral equivalent of elevator music. Those people are wrong. A carnation isn’t a background player. It’s a shapeshifter. One day, it’s a tight pom-pom, prim as a Victorian collar. The next, it’s exploded into a fireworks display, edges fraying with deliberate chaos.

Their petals aren’t petals. They’re fractals, each frill a recursion of the last, a botanical mise en abyme. Get close. The layers don’t just overlap—they converse, whispering in gradients. A red carnation isn’t red. It’s a thousand reds, from arterial crimson at the core to blush at the fringe, as if the flower can’t decide how intensely to feel. The green ones? They’re not plants. They’re sculptures, chlorophyll made avant-garde. Pair them with roses, and the roses stiffen, suddenly aware they’re being upstaged by something that costs half as much.

Scent is where they get sneaky. Some smell like cloves, spicy and warm, a nasal hug. Others offer nothing but a green, soapy whisper. This duality is key. Use fragrant carnations in a bouquet, and they pull double duty—visual pop and olfactory anchor. Choose scentless ones, and they cede the air to divas like lilies, happy to let others preen. They’re team players with boundary issues.

Longevity is their secret weapon. While tulips bow out after a week and peonies shed petals like confetti at a parade, carnations dig in. They drink water like marathoners, stems staying improbably rigid, colors refusing to fade. Leave them in a vase, forget to change the water, and they’ll still outlast every other bloom, grinning through neglect like teenagers who know they’ll win the staring contest.

Then there’s the bend. Carnation stems don’t just stand—they kink, curve, slouch against the vase with the casual arrogance of a cat on a windowsill. This isn’t a flaw. It’s choreography. Let them tilt, and the arrangement gains motion, a sense that the flowers might suddenly sway into a dance. Pair them with rigid gladiolus or upright larkspur, and the contrast becomes kinetic, a frozen argument between discipline and anarchy.

Colors mock the spectrum. There’s no shade they can’t fake. Neon coral. Bruised purple. Lime green so electric it hums. Striped varieties look like they’ve been painted by a meticulous kindergartener. Use them in monochrome arrangements, and the effect is hypnotic, texture doing the work of contrast. Toss them into wild mixes, and they mediate, their ruffles bridging gaps between disparate blooms like a multilingual diplomat.

And the buds. Oh, the buds. Tiny, knuckled fists clustered along the stem, each a promise. They open incrementally, one after another, turning a single stem into a time-lapse of bloom. An arrangement with carnations isn’t static. It’s a serialized story, new chapters unfolding daily.

They’re rebels with a cause. Dyed carnations? They embrace the artifice, glowing in Day-Glo blues and blacks like flowers from a dystopian garden. Bi-colored? They treat gradients as a dare. Even white carnations refuse purity, their petals blushing pink or yellow at the edges as if embarrassed by their own modesty.

When they finally wilt, they do it without drama. Petals desiccate slowly, curling into papery commas, stems bending but not breaking. You could mistake them for alive weeks after they’ve quit. Dry them, and they become relics, their texture preserved in crisp detail, color fading to vintage hues.

So yes, you could dismiss them as filler, as the floral world’s cubicle drones. But that’s like calling oxygen boring. Carnations are the quiet geniuses of the vase, the ones doing the work while others take bows. An arrangement without them isn’t wrong. It’s just unfinished.

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

Morning in Covington, Louisiana arrives like a slow exhalation. Sunlight filters through live oaks whose branches sag under the weight of centuries and Spanish moss, casting lace shadows on clapboard storefronts. A train whistle echoes somewhere beyond the Bogue Falaya River, where mist curls off the water like steam from a just-opened pot. The air smells of damp earth and freshly ground coffee. On Columbia Street, a man in a wide-brimmed hat sweeps the sidewalk outside a bakery whose cinnamon rolls have achieved local myth status. Two doors down, a woman arranges sunflowers in galvanized buckets, her hands moving with the efficiency of someone who has done this for years and still finds it pleasurable. Covington does not announce itself. It exists as if it has always existed, which in some form it has, and this is part of its quiet power.

Walk east toward the river, past the 19th-century courthouse with its clock tower that chimes on the hour, slightly off-sync with your phone’s atomic precision, and you’ll notice something: people here look at each other. Not in the glassy, performative way of urban centers, but with a frankness that suggests recognition. A teenager on a skateboard nods to a septuagenarian in a seersucker suit. A Labrador trots beside a child clutching a popsicle, both trailed by a parent relaxed enough to let the dog handle crowd control. The sense is of a town that has decided, collectively, to resist the frantic binary of modern life, not out of stubbornness, but a commitment to something harder to name.

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

The H.J. Smith & Sons Hardware store has occupied the same corner since 1876. Inside, wooden floors creak underfoot, and the shelves hold everything from fishing lures to cast-iron skillets. A clerk explains the mechanics of a vintage kerosene lamp to a customer who may or may not need a vintage kerosene lamp. The transaction is secondary. What’s happening here is the transfer of lore, the kind that used to pass between generations before Google became our collective elderly relative. Down the block, the Southern Hotel stands restored but unpretentious, its porch lined with rocking chairs that sway in the breeze like metronomes keeping time for the afternoon.

Covington’s soul is entwined with its art. The Three Rivers Art Festival floods downtown each November with painters, sculptors, and musicians, but the creativity isn’t confined to calendar events. Mosaic murals bloom on alleyway walls. A jazz trio plays weekly in a pocket park where toddlers dance with the unselfconscious joy of beings who’ve yet to learn the word “embarrassment.” The local bookstore hosts authors whose readings feel like conversations between old friends. There’s an understanding here that art isn’t a commodity but a connective tissue.

The wilderness encircling Covington insists on its presence. The St. Tammany Trace, a 31-mile rails-to-trails greenway, draws cyclists and joggers beneath canopies of pine and sweetgum. In Bogue Falaya Park, kids skip stones across the river while great blue herons stalk the shallows, feathered sentries unimpressed by human antics. The landscape doesn’t overwhelm. It invites. It says: Breathe. Notice.

What Covington offers isn’t nostalgia. It’s proof that a community can thrive without sacrificing its essence, that progress and preservation can tango if both partners listen. This is a town where front porches still function as living rooms, where the phrase “growing like kudzu” is a cautionary metaphor, where the past isn’t a relic but a foundation. You get the sense, watching the sunset paint the sky in sherbet hues over the Tchefuncte River, that this is a place content to be itself. In an era of relentless self-promotion, that feels almost radical.