April 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for April in Staples is the High Style Bouquet

Introducing the High Style Bouquet from Bloom Central. This bouquet is simply stunning, combining an array of vibrant blooms that will surely brighten up any room.

The High Style Bouquet contains rich red roses, Stargazer Lilies, pink Peruvian Lilies, burgundy mini carnations, pink statice, and lush greens. All of these beautiful components are arranged in such a way that they create a sense of movement and energy, adding life to your surroundings.

What makes the High Style Bouquet stand out from other arrangements is its impeccable attention to detail. Each flower is carefully selected for its beauty and freshness before being expertly placed into the bouquet by skilled florists. It's like having your own personal stylist hand-pick every bloom just for you.

The rich hues found within this arrangement are enough to make anyone swoon with joy. From velvety reds to soft pinks and creamy whites there is something here for everyone's visual senses. The colors blend together seamlessly, creating a harmonious symphony of beauty that can't be ignored.

Not only does the High Style Bouquet look amazing as a centerpiece on your dining table or kitchen counter but it also radiates pure bliss throughout your entire home. Its fresh fragrance fills every nook and cranny with sweet scents reminiscent of springtime meadows. Talk about aromatherapy at its finest.

Whether you're treating yourself or surprising someone special in your life with this breathtaking bouquet from Bloom Central, one thing remains certain: happiness will blossom wherever it is placed. So go ahead, embrace the beauty and elegance of the High Style Bouquet because everyone deserves a little luxury in their life!

Consider the protea ... that prehistoric showstopper, that botanical fireworks display that seems less like a flower and more like a sculpture forged by some mad genius at the intersection of art and evolution. Its central dome bristles with spiky bracts like a sea urchin dressed for gala, while the outer petals fan out in a defiant sunburst of color—pinks that blush from petal tip to stem, crimsons so deep they flirt with black, creamy whites that glow like moonlit porcelain. You’ve seen them in high-end florist shops, these alien beauties from South Africa, their very presence in an arrangement announcing that this is no ordinary bouquet ... this is an event, a statement, a floral mic drop.

What makes proteas revolutionary isn’t just their looks—though let’s be honest, no other flower comes close to their architectural audacity—but their sheer staying power. While roses sigh and collapse after three days, proteas stand firm for weeks, their leathery petals and woody stems laughing in the face of decay. They’re the marathon runners of the cut-flower world, endurance athletes that refuse to quit even as the hydrangeas around them dissolve into sad, papery puddles. And their texture ... oh, their texture. Run your fingers over a protea’s bloom and you’ll find neither the velvety softness of a rose nor the crisp fragility of a daisy, but something altogether different—a waxy, almost plastic resilience that feels like nature showing off.

The varieties read like a cast of mythical creatures. The ‘King Protea,’ big as a dinner plate, its central fluff of stamens resembling a lion’s mane. The ‘Pink Ice,’ with its frosted-looking bracts that shimmer under light. The ‘Banksia,’ all spiky cones and burnt-orange hues, looking like something that might’ve grown on Mars. Each one brings its own brand of drama, its own reason to abandon timid floral conventions and embrace the bold. Pair them with palm fronds and you’ve created a jungle. Add them to a bouquet of succulents and suddenly you’re not arranging flowers ... you’re curating a desert oasis.

Here’s the thing about proteas: they don’t do subtle. Drop one into a vase of carnations and the carnations instantly look like they’re wearing sweatpants to a black-tie event. But here’s the magic—proteas don’t just dominate ... they elevate. Their unapologetic presence gives everything around them permission to be bolder, brighter, more unafraid. A single stem in a minimalist ceramic vase transforms a room into a gallery. Three of them in a wild, sprawling arrangement? Now you’ve got a conversation piece, a centerpiece that doesn’t just sit there but performs.

Cut their stems at a sharp angle. Sear the ends with boiling water (they’ll reward you by lasting even longer). Strip the lower leaves to avoid slimy disasters. Do these things, and you’re not just arranging flowers—you’re conducting a symphony of texture and longevity. A protea on your mantel isn’t decoration ... it’s a declaration. A reminder that nature doesn’t always do delicate. Sometimes it does magnificent. Sometimes it does unforgettable.

The genius of proteas is how they bridge worlds. They’re exotic but not fussy, dramatic but not needy, rugged enough to thrive in harsh climates yet refined enough to star in haute floristry. They’re the flower equivalent of a perfectly tailored leather jacket—equally at home in a sleek urban loft or a sunbaked coastal cottage. Next time you see them, don’t just admire from afar. Bring one home. Let it sit on your table like a quiet revolution. Days later, when other blooms have surrendered, your protea will still be there, still vibrant, still daring you to think differently about what a flower can be.

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

The thing about Staples, Minnesota, is how the place seems to hum without ever raising its voice. You notice it first in the way the sun slants off the railroad tracks downtown, turning steel into liquid gold for a few minutes each morning, or how the wind carries the smell of fresh-cut grass from the high school football field all the way to the library parking lot, where someone’s left a bicycle unlocked near the entrance, handlebar basket full of paperbacks. The town sits where the pine forests thin into prairie, a convergence that feels less like geography than a quiet argument between two kinds of beauty. People here move with the deliberateness of those who know their labor matters but refuse to let it define them. At the Cenex station, a man in oil-stained jeans buys a coffee and asks the cashier about her mother’s recovery. At the community center, teenagers rehearse a play in a room that still smells of last night’s potluck.

Staples was born a railroad town, and the tracks remain its spine. Freight cars still clatter through daily, their rhythms so ingrained locals can tell time by the distant groan of wheels. But the depot, restored to its 1920s grandeur, now houses a museum where third graders sketch pioneer artifacts and retirees swap stories about the Great Northern Line. History here isn’t preserved behind glass so much as invited to pull up a chair. On Fridays, the farmers’ market spills across the depot lawn, jars of honey, quilts, tomatoes still warm from the vine, and you can watch a fourth-generation conductor help a toddler weigh a zucchini on an antique scale. The trains themselves seem to slow just a little as they pass, as if out of respect.

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

What’s easy to miss, unless you linger, is how Staples’ resilience is woven into its modesty. The library’s summer reading program packs the annex with kids dissecting owl pellets and writing haiku about thunderstorms. The community garden, a riot of sunflowers and okra, thrives on a plot donated by a family in memory of their son, whose name now graces a scholarship for aspiring agronomists. Even the old water tower, its paint blistered by decades of winters, wears a fresh mural of loons gliding across a lake. Nobody here talks much about “community building.” They simply plant marigolds along the sidewalks and show up when the fire department hosts pancake breakfasts.

There’s a particular light that falls on Staples in late afternoon, turning the grain elevator into a monolith of shadow and gold, glinting off the windows of the elementary school where a teacher stays late to laminate posters of the water cycle. You see it in the faces of parents lining the soccer field, cheering equally for both teams, and in the way the diner’s regulars defend their pie preferences with mock ferocity. (“If you order apple without vanilla ice cream,” one warns, “we’ll assume you’re a spy.”) The town’s pulse isn’t in its landmarks but in its margins: the flick of a fishing line over Mott Lake at dawn, the squeak of sneakers on the gym floor during a pickup game, the unspoken rule that you wave at every car on County Road 3 even if you don’t know the driver.

To call Staples “quaint” would miss the point. This is a place where the Wi-Fi signal at the coffee shop is strong, but the bulletin board still lists free kittens and babysitting gigs. Where the new medical clinic has solar panels but also a porch swing for waiting patients. Where the seasons don’t just pass but perform, autumn’s maple fireworks, winter’s silent flattening of everything into a monochrome dream, spring’s mud-and-lilac rebellion. It’s a town that understands the difference between solitude and loneliness, between progress and displacement. You get the sense Staples has mastered a kind of balance the rest of us are still theorizing about, a way to hold tradition and change in the same hand without squeezing.

Leave your phone in your pocket awhile. Watch the way the sunset turns the train tracks into twin rivers of light. Notice how the air smells like rain and freshly sawn wood. There’s a rhythm here, patient and insistent, and if you listen long enough, you might feel your own heartbeat start to match it.