June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Red Wing is the Happy Day Bouquet

The Happy Day Bouquet from Bloom Central is simply adorable. This charming floral arrangement is perfect for brightening up any room in your home. It features a delightful mix of vibrant flowers that will instantly bring joy to anyone who sees them.

With cheery colors and a playful design the Happy Day Bouquet is sure to put a smile on anyone's face. The bouquet includes a collection of yellow roses and luminous bupleurum plus white daisy pompon and green button pompon. These blooms are expertly arranged in a clear cylindrical glass vase with green foliage accents.

The size of this bouquet is just right - not too big and not too small. It is the perfect centerpiece for your dining table or coffee table, adding a pop of color without overwhelming the space. Plus, it's so easy to care for! Simply add water every few days and enjoy the beauty it brings to your home.

What makes this arrangement truly special is its versatility. Whether you're celebrating a birthday, anniversary, or simply want to brighten someone's day, the Happy Day Bouquet fits the bill perfectly. With timeless appeal makes this arrangement is suitable for recipients of all ages.

If you're looking for an affordable yet stunning gift option look no further than the Happy Day Bouquet from Bloom Central. As one of our lowest priced arrangements, the budget-friendly price allows you to spread happiness without breaking the bank.

Ordering this beautiful bouquet couldn't be easier either. With Bloom Central's convenient online ordering system you can have it delivered straight to your doorstep or directly to someone special in just a few clicks.

So why wait? Treat yourself or surprise someone dear with this delightful floral arrangement today! The Happy Day Bouquet will undoubtedly uplift spirits and create lasting memories filled with joy and love.

Myrtles don’t just occupy vases ... they haunt them. Stems like twisted wire erupt with leaves so glossy they mimic lacquered porcelain, each oval plane a perfect conspiracy of chlorophyll and light, while clusters of starry blooms—tiny, white, almost apologetic—hover like constellations trapped in green velvet. This isn’t foliage. It’s a sensory manifesto. A botanical argument that beauty isn’t about size but persistence, not spectacle but the slow accumulation of details most miss. Other flowers shout. Myrtles insist.

Consider the leaves. Rub one between thumb and forefinger, and the aroma detonates—pine resin meets citrus peel meets the ghost of a Mediterranean hillside. This isn’t scent. It’s time travel. Pair Myrtles with roses, and the roses’ perfume gains depth, their cloying sweetness cut by the Myrtle’s astringent clarity. Pair them with lilies, and the lilies’ drama softens, their theatricality tempered by the Myrtle’s quiet authority. The effect isn’t harmony. It’s revelation.

Their structure mocks fragility. Those delicate-looking blooms cling for weeks, outlasting peonies’ fainting spells and tulips’ existential collapses. Stems drink water with the discipline of ascetics, leaves refusing to yellow or curl even as the surrounding arrangement surrenders to entropy. Leave them in a forgotten corner, and they’ll outlast your interest in fresh flowers altogether, their waxy resilience a silent rebuke to everything ephemeral.

Color here is a sleight of hand. The white flowers aren’t white but opalescent, catching light like prisms. The berries—when they come—aren’t mere fruit but obsidian jewels, glossy enough to reflect your face back at you, warped and questioning. Against burgundy dahlias, they become punctuation. Against blue delphiniums, they’re the quiet punchline to a chromatic joke.

They’re shape-shifters with range. In a mason jar with wild daisies, they’re pastoral nostalgia. In a black urn with proteas, they’re post-apocalyptic elegance. Braid them into a bridal bouquet, and suddenly the roses seem less like clichés and more like heirlooms. Strip the leaves, and the stems become minimalist sculpture. Leave them on, and the arrangement gains a spine.

Symbolism clings to them like resin. Ancient Greeks wove them into wedding crowns ... Roman poets linked them to Venus ... Victorian gardeners planted them as living metaphors for enduring love. None of that matters when you’re staring at a stem that seems less picked than excavated, its leaves whispering of cliffside winds and olive groves and the particular silence that follows a truth too obvious to speak.

When they fade (months later, grudgingly), they do it without drama. Leaves crisp at the edges, berries shrivel into raisins, stems stiffen into botanical artifacts. Keep them anyway. A dried Myrtle sprig in a February windowsill isn’t a relic ... it’s a covenant. A promise that spring’s stubborn green will return, that endurance has its own aesthetic, that sometimes the most profound statements come sheathed in unassuming leaves.

You could default to eucalyptus, to ferns, to greenery that knows its place. But why? Myrtles refuse to be background. They’re the unassuming guest who quietly rearranges the conversation, the supporting actor whose absence would collapse the entire plot. An arrangement with them isn’t decor ... it’s a lesson. Proof that sometimes, the most essential beauty isn’t in the blooming ... but in the staying.

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

The Mississippi River carves its path southeast of the Twin Cities with a kind of geological indifference, but in Red Wing, Minnesota, the water seems to slow, as if the bluffs on either side have leaned in to whisper something worth hearing. The town sits nestled in a valley where the air smells of freshwater and cut grass, where the streets wind like tributaries toward a downtown that feels both preserved and alive. Red Wing’s brick facades glow russet in the morning light, their surfaces pocked with the ghosts of old signage, faded ads for feed stores and five-cent sodas, that hint at a past both humble and industrious. Today, those buildings house bakeries, galleries, and a pottery studio whose kilns hum with the same heat that once fired the clay of local artisans a century prior.

Walk down Third Street on a Tuesday and you’ll pass a woman in a sunhat arranging dahlias in a galvanized bucket outside her shop. A man in denim overalls waves from a ladder as he paints a window frame the color of summer squash. The sidewalks here are wide enough for two strollers to pass without collision, and they often do, piloted by parents whose faces suggest they’ve chosen this life deliberately. There’s a shoe store everyone knows about, its display window a museum of leather and craftsmanship, where the smell of tanned hides mingles with the tang of coffee from the café next door. The shoes themselves are famous, worn by farmers and presidents, but in Red Wing, they’re just shoes, reliable, unpretentious, built to last.

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

The town’s geography defies the Midwest’s flat stereotypes. Barn Bluff looms over the river like a sandstone titan, its trails switchbacking through oak and prairie remnants. Hike to the summit at dawn and you’ll find joggers pausing mid-stride to watch fog lift from the water, transforming the valley into a Claude Monet study. Down below, the riverfront park hosts a weekly farmers’ market where a teenager sells honey from his family’s hives, his pitch punctuated by the thwack of tennis balls from nearby courts. The tomatoes here are fat and sun-warmed, the ears of corn so sweet they could pass for dessert.

Red Wing’s architecture leans into its history without succumbing to nostalgia. The St. James Hotel, a Romanesque Revival pile with a turreted roof, anchors the downtown with the gravitas of a grandfather who still wears a pocket watch. Its lobby, all dark wood and stained glass, doubles as a gallery for local painters. One afternoon, you might find a septuagenarian docent lecturing a group of schoolchildren about the Pottery Place, where clay mined from the local riverbanks once made Red Wing crocks a staple in pantries across the continent. The clay is still there, still shaped by hands that understand the difference between a job and a vocation.

What defines this town, though, isn’t its landmarks or its topography. It’s the way people here engage with the world as if participation were a form of grace. At the public library, a librarian reads picture books to toddlers with the intensity of a Shakespearean actor. At the community garden, retirees trade zucchini for sugar snap peas over chicken wire fences. Even the crows seem civic-minded, gathering in the sycamores to discuss the day’s business in raspy baritones.

There’s a quiet thrill in places that refuse to be generic, that insist on their own specificity. Red Wing doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. The bluffs reflect the sunset in hues of amber and mauve, the river writes its ceaseless poem, and the people go about the business of living as if they’ve cracked some elemental code. You get the sense, standing on a corner as the light fades, that this is what a small town can be when it decides to stay awake to the world, not a relic, but a living thing, breathing in time with the seasons.