June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Matthews is the All Things Bright Bouquet

The All Things Bright Bouquet from Bloom Central is just perfect for brightening up any space with its lavender roses. Typically this arrangement is selected to convey sympathy but it really is perfect for anyone that needs a little boost.

One cannot help but feel uplifted by the charm of these lovely blooms. Each flower has been carefully selected to complement one another, resulting in a beautiful harmonious blend.

Not only does this bouquet look amazing, it also smells heavenly. The sweet fragrance emanating from the fresh blossoms fills the room with an enchanting aroma that instantly soothes the senses.

What makes this arrangement even more special is how long-lasting it is. These flowers are hand selected and expertly arranged to ensure their longevity so they can be enjoyed for days on end. Plus, they come delivered in a stylish vase which adds an extra touch of elegance.

Consider the Nigella ... a flower that seems spun from the raw material of fairy tales, all tendrils and mystery, its blooms hovering like sapphire satellites in a nest of fennel-green lace. You’ve seen them in cottage gardens, maybe, or poking through cracks in stone walls, their foliage a froth of threadlike leaves that dissolve into the background until the flowers erupt—delicate, yes, but fierce in their refusal to be ignored. Pluck one stem, and you’ll find it’s not a single flower but a constellation: petals like tissue paper, stamens like minuscule lightning rods, and below it all, that intricate cage of bracts, as if the plant itself is trying to hold its breath.

What makes Nigellas—call them Love-in-a-Mist if you’re feeling romantic, Devil-in-a-Bush if you’re not—so singular is their refusal to settle. They’re shape-shifters. One day, a five-petaled bloom the color of a twilight sky, soft as a bruise. The next, a swollen seed pod, striped and veined like some exotic reptile’s egg, rising from the wreckage of spent petals. Florists who dismiss them as filler haven’t been paying attention. Drop a handful into a vase of tulips, and the tulips snap into focus, their bold cups suddenly part of a narrative. Pair them with peonies, and the peonies shed their prima donna vibe, their blousy heads balanced by Nigellas’ wiry grace.

Their stems are the stuff of contortionists—thin, yes, but preternaturally strong, capable of looping and arching without breaking, as if they’ve internalized the logic of cursive script. Arrange them in a tight bundle, and they’ll jostle for space like commuters. Let them sprawl, and they become a landscape, all negative space and whispers. And the colors. The classic blue, so intense it seems to vibrate. The white varieties, like snowflakes caught mid-melt. The deep maroons that swallow light. Each hue comes with its own mood, its own reason to lean closer.

But here’s the kicker: Nigellas are time travelers. They bloom, fade, and then—just when you think the show’s over—their pods steal the scene. These husks, papery and ornate, persist for weeks, turning from green to parchment to gold, their geometry so precise they could’ve been drafted by a mathematician with a poetry habit. Dry them, and they become heirlooms. Toss them into a winter arrangement, and they’ll outshine the holly, their skeletal beauty a rebuke to the season’s gloom.

They’re also anarchists. Plant them once, and they’ll reseed with the enthusiasm of a rumor, popping up in sidewalk cracks, between patio stones, in the shadow of your rose bush. They thrive on benign neglect, their roots gripping poor soil like they prefer it, their faces tilting toward the sun as if to say, Is that all you’ve got? This isn’t fragility. It’s strategy. A survivalist’s charm wrapped in lace.

And the names. ‘Miss Jekyll’ for the classicists. ‘Persian Jewels’ for the magpies. ‘Delft Blue’ for those who like their flowers with a side of delftware. Each variety insists on its own mythology, but all share that Nigella knack for blurring lines—between wild and cultivated, between flower and sculpture, between ephemeral and eternal.

Use them in a bouquet, and you’re not just adding texture. You’re adding plot twists. A Nigella elbowing its way between ranunculus and stock is like a stand-up comic crashing a string quartet ... unexpected, jarring, then suddenly essential. They remind us that beauty doesn’t have to shout. It can insinuate. It can unravel. It can linger long after the last petal drops.

Next time you’re at the market, skip the hydrangeas. Bypass the alstroemerias. Grab a bunch of Nigellas. Let them loose on your dining table, your desk, your windowsill. Watch how the light filigrees through their bracts. Notice how the air feels lighter, as if the room itself is breathing. You’ll wonder how you ever settled for arrangements that made sense. Nigellas don’t do sense. They do magic.

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

The thing about Matthews, North Carolina, is how it manages to feel both inevitable and impossible. You drive in past the low-slung retail plazas and the urgent green of loblolly pines, past the soccer fields where children move in pixelated clusters under the squeal of coaches’ whistles, and then suddenly, here, between the CVS and the AutoZone, is a downtown that looks like a postcard of a downtown, the kind of place where the barber knows your grandfather’s name and the bakery’s cinnamon rolls have achieved a near-mythic status among third graders. The sun slants through oak trees older than the town itself, dappling the sidewalks with light that seems to say: This is not an accident. This is a choice.

Matthews began as a railroad stop in 1874, a literal junction between dirt and progress, and you can still feel that tension in the way the town holds itself. The old train depot, now a museum, sits a half-mile from a community center where toddlers learn to swim in pools so clean they glow. People here bike to the farmers’ market on Saturdays not because they have to but because they want to, because the peaches are warm from the field and the woman at the honey stand remembers your allergy to pollen. There’s a pragmatism to the place, a sense that life is both hard and worth softening for one another. You see it in the way neighbors pause midwalk to discuss zoning laws or the high school’s playoff chances, in the way the library’s summer reading program turns into a kind of civic sacrament.

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

Stumptown Park is the town’s lungs, a 17-acre space where something is always happening but never too much. Families spread blankets for concerts under the stars. Retirees play pickleball with the intensity of Olympians. Teenagers lurk near the playground, half-embarrassed by their own nostalgia. The park doesn’t try to be everything to everyone. It simply is, a shared yard where the only entry fee is showing up.

What’s easy to miss, though, is how carefully Matthews guards its equilibrium. The town has doubled in size since 2000, swallowing former farmland into cul-de-sacs and schools with eco-friendly roofs. Yet the new coffee shop on Trade Street still donates its pastries to the food pantry, and the crosswalks near the elementary school are painted like rainbows. There’s a tacit agreement here: Growth is fine, maybe even good, but not at the cost of the thing that makes a Thursday evening ice cream run feel like a ritual.

The real magic lies in the details you’d overlook unless you stayed awhile. The way the historic theater marquee flickers to life at dusk, its bulbs humming faintly. The barista who starts your latte before you reach the counter. The guy who repairs bicycles in his driveway and refuses to charge kids. It’s a town that believes in visible effort, in the dignity of keeping the sidewalks swept and the flower beds mulched. You get the sense that everyone here is quietly, collectively, trying, not to freeze time or outrun it, but to fold the past and future into something that feels like now.

And maybe that’s the point. In an age of relentless abstraction, Matthews remains stubbornly specific. It insists that a place can be both ordinary and extraordinary, that the real work of community isn’t glamorous but granular. You don’t come here to escape life. You come here to live it, in all its unremarkable, indispensable glory.