June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Higgins is the A Splendid Day Bouquet

Introducing A Splendid Day Bouquet, a delightful floral arrangement that is sure to brighten any room! This gorgeous bouquet will make your heart skip a beat with its vibrant colors and whimsical charm.

Featuring an assortment of stunning blooms in cheerful shades of pink, purple, and green, this bouquet captures the essence of happiness in every petal. The combination of roses and asters creates a lovely variety that adds depth and visual interest.

With its simple yet elegant design, this bouquet can effortlessly enhance any space it graces. Whether displayed on a dining table or placed on a bedside stand as a sweet surprise for someone special, it brings instant joy wherever it goes.

One cannot help but admire the delicate balance between different hues within this bouquet. Soft lavender blend seamlessly with radiant purples - truly reminiscent of springtime bliss!

The sizeable blossoms are complemented perfectly by lush green foliage which serves as an exquisite backdrop for these stunning flowers. But what sets A Splendid Day Bouquet apart from others? Its ability to exude warmth right when you need it most! Imagine coming home after a long day to find this enchanting masterpiece waiting for you, instantly transforming the recipient's mood into one filled with tranquility.

Not only does each bloom boast incredible beauty but their intoxicating fragrance fills the air around them. This magical creation embodies the essence of happiness and radiates positive energy. It is a constant reminder that life should be celebrated, every single day!

The Splendid Day Bouquet from Bloom Central is simply magnificent! Its vibrant colors, stunning variety of blooms, and delightful fragrance make it an absolute joy to behold. Whether you're treating yourself or surprising someone special, this bouquet will undoubtedly bring smiles and brighten any day!

Birds of Paradise don’t just sit in arrangements ... they erupt from them. Stems like green sabers hoist blooms that defy botanical logic—part flower, part performance art, all angles and audacity. Each one is a slow-motion explosion frozen at its peak, a chromatic shout wrapped in structural genius. Other flowers decorate. Birds of Paradise announce.

Consider the anatomy of astonishment. That razor-sharp "beak" (a bract, technically) isn’t just showmanship—it’s a launchpad for the real fireworks: neon-orange sepals and electric-blue petals that emerge like some psychedelic jack-in-the-box. The effect isn’t floral. It’s avian. A trompe l'oeil so convincing you’ll catch yourself waiting for wings to unfold. Pair them with anthuriums, and the arrangement becomes a debate between two philosophies of exotic. Pair them with simple greenery, and the leaves become a frame for living modern art.

Color here isn’t pigment—it’s voltage. The oranges burn hotter than construction signage. The blues vibrate at a frequency that makes delphiniums look washed out. The contrast between them—sharp, sudden, almost violent—doesn’t so much catch the eye as assault it. Toss one into a bouquet of pastel peonies, and the peonies don’t just pale ... they evaporate.

They’re structural revolutionaries. While roses huddle and hydrangeas blob, Birds of Paradise project. Stems grow in precise 90-degree angles, blooms jutting sideways with the confidence of a matador’s cape. This isn’t randomness. It’s choreography. An arrangement with them isn’t static—it’s a frozen dance, all tension and implied movement. Place three stems in a tall vase, and the room acquires a new axis.

Longevity is their quiet superpower. While orchids sulk and tulips slump, Birds of Paradise endure. Waxy bracts repel time like Teflon, colors staying saturated for weeks, stems drinking water with the discipline of marathon runners. Forget them in a hotel lobby vase, and they’ll outlast your stay, the conference, possibly the building’s lease.

Scent is conspicuously absent. This isn’t an oversight—it’s strategy. Birds of Paradise reject olfactory distraction. They’re here for your retinas, your Instagram feed, your lizard brain’s primal response to saturated color and sharp edges. Let gardenias handle subtlety. This is visual opera at full volume.

They’re egalitarian aliens. In a sleek black vase on a penthouse table, they’re Beverly Hills modern. Stuck in a bucket at a bodega, they’re that rare splash of tropical audacity in a concrete jungle. Their presence doesn’t complement spaces—it interrogates them.

Symbolism clings to them like pollen. Emblems of freedom ... mascots of paradise ... florist shorthand for "look at me." None of that matters when you’re face-to-face with a bloom that seems to be actively considering you back.

When they finally fade (months later, probably), they do it without apology. Bracts crisp at the edges first, colors retreating like tides, stems stiffening into botanical fossils. Keep them anyway. A spent Bird of Paradise in a winter window isn’t a corpse—it’s a rumor. A promise that somewhere, the sun still burns hot enough to birth such madness.

You could default to lilies, to roses, to flowers that play by the rules. But why? Birds of Paradise refuse to be domesticated. They’re the uninvited guest who rewrites the party’s dress code, the punchline that becomes the joke. An arrangement with them isn’t decor—it’s a revolution in a vase. Proof that sometimes, the most beautiful things don’t whisper ... they shriek.

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

Consider the town of Higgins, Michigan, a place that does not so much announce itself as allow you to discover it incrementally, like the gradual solving of a jigsaw puzzle where each piece is a front porch swing creaking in unison with the neighbor’s, or the smell of fresh-cut grass mingling with lake air that tastes vaguely of wild blueberries. Higgins sits just south of the Upper Peninsula, nestled between a dense sprawl of white pine and the kind of lake that locals refer to not by its official name but as “the big one,” its surface a mosaic of sunlight and ripples that flicker like old film. The town’s streets curve without gridlike rigidity, as though laid by someone who once read about roads in a book but decided improvisation felt more honest.

What defines Higgins isn’t its geography but its rhythm. Mornings here begin with the syncopated thump of screen doors as kids in untucked shirts sprint toward buses, backpacks bouncing. At the diner on Main Street, regulars order “the usual” in a shorthand of nods, and the cook, a man named Dell with a tattoo of a walleye on his forearm, slides plates of hash browns toward patrons who laugh at jokes they’ve heard before but still find funny. The clatter of cutlery harmonizes with the hiss of the griddle, a breakfast orchestra that plays daily.

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

The town’s centerpiece is Higgins Hardware, a family-owned ark of nails, seed packets, and nostalgia where the floorboards groan underfoot and the owner, Martha, can diagnose your leaky faucet by voice alone. She keeps a jar of lemon drops by the register and insists you take one even if you’re just buying a single lightbulb. Next door, the library operates out of a converted Victorian home, its shelves curated by a retired teacher named Gloria, who greets every visitor with a stack of recommendations thicker than the books themselves. She once spent 20 minutes helping a fourth grader find the perfect novel about dragons, her eyes alight as though this were the task she’d been born for.

Summer in Higgins transforms the town into a hive of unplanned festivals. There’s the weekly farmers market where teenagers sell honey in mason jars, their labels handwritten in careful cursive, and retirees hawk zucchini the size of forearm bones. The park hosts concerts where cover bands play Creedence with more enthusiasm than precision, and toddlers wobble-dance in grass-stained overalls. Every July, the community gathers to watch the fireworks over the lake, oohing and aahing in collective awe that never seems to diminish, even when the grand finale fizzles.

Autumn brings a different cadence. The air sharpens, and the woods blaze into a riot of orange and crimson. School buses become caravans for field trips to pumpkin patches, and the diner swaps iced tea for cider served in mugs that warm your palms. People here speak of winter with a sort of reverential dread, but for now, they rake leaves into piles that kids cannonball into, their laughter carrying across yards.

Higgins lacks the curated charm of tourist towns. There’s no self-conscious quaintness, no gimmicky museums. What it offers is harder to package: a sense of continuity, of belonging to something that predates you and will outlast you. It’s in the way the barber asks about your mother’s knee surgery, or how the woman at the post office slips a extra stamp into your hand when you’re short on change. The town operates on a quiet code of care, an unspoken agreement that no one gets left behind.

To call Higgins “simple” would miss the point. Its beauty lives in the minor chords, the hum of a pontoon boat at dusk, the shared silence of neighbors shoveling snow from each other’s driveways, the way the entire town seems to exhale when the first fireflies rise like sparks from a campfire. It is a place that insists, gently, that life’s worth lies not in grandeur but in the accumulation of small, tender moments, each one a pixel in the bigger picture. You leave Higgins wondering why more of the world doesn’t work this way, and then you realize, with a pang, that maybe it still could.