June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Frankfort 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!

Consider the Cosmos ... a flower that floats where others anchor, that levitates above the dirt with the insouciance of a daydream. Its petals are tissue-paper thin, arranged around a yolk-bright center like rays from a child’s sun drawing, but don’t mistake this simplicity for naivete. The Cosmos is a masterclass in minimalism, each bloom a tiny galaxy spinning on a stem so slender it seems to defy physics. You’ve seen them in ditches, maybe, or flanking suburban mailboxes—spindly things that shrug off neglect, that bloom harder the less you care. But pluck a fistful, jam them into a vase between the carnations and the chrysanthemums, and watch the whole arrangement exhale. Suddenly there’s air in the room. Movement. The Cosmos don’t sit; they sway.

What’s wild is how they thrive on contradiction. Their name ... kosmos in Greek, a term Pythagoras might’ve used to describe the ordered universe ... but the flower itself is chaos incarnate. Leaves like fern fronds, fine as lace, dissect the light into a million shards. Stems that zig where others zag, creating negative space that’s not empty but alive, a lattice for shadows to play. And those flowers—eight petals each, usually, though you’d need a botanist’s focus to count them as they tremble. They come in pinks that blush harder in the sun, whites so pure they make lilies look dingy, crimsons that hum like a bass note under all that pastel. Pair them with zinnias, and the zinnias gain levity. Pair them with sage, and the sage stops smelling like a roast and starts smelling like a meadow.

Florists underestimate them. Too common, they say. Too weedy. But this is the Cosmos’ secret superpower: it refuses to be precious. While orchids sulk in their pots and roses demand constant praise, the Cosmos just ... grows. It’s the people’s flower, democratic, prolific, a bloom that doesn’t know it’s supposed to play hard to get. Snip a stem, and three more will surge up to replace it. Leave it in a vase, and it’ll drink water like it’s still rooted in earth, petals quivering as if laughing at the concept of mortality. Days later, when the lilacs have collapsed into mush, the Cosmos stands tall, maybe a little faded, but still game, still throwing its face toward the window.

And the varieties. The ‘Sea Shells’ series, petals rolled into tiny flutes, as if each bloom were frozen mid-whisper. The ‘Picotee,’ edges dipped in rouge like a lipsticked kiss. The ‘Double Click’ varieties, pom-poms of petals that mock the very idea of minimalism. But even at their frilliest, Cosmos never lose that lightness, that sense that a stiff breeze could send them spiraling into the sky. Arrange them en masse, and they’re a cloud of color. Use one as a punctuation mark in a bouquet, and it becomes the sentence’s pivot, the word that makes you rethink everything before it.

Here’s the thing about Cosmos: they’re gardeners’ jazz. Structured enough to follow the rules—plant in sun, water occasionally, wait—but improvisational in their beauty, their willingness to bolt toward the light, to flop dramatically, to reseed in cracks and corners where no flower has a right to be. They’re the guest who shows up to a black-tie event in a linen suit and ends up being the most photographed. The more you try to tame them, the more they remind you that control is an illusion.

Put them in a mason jar on a desk cluttered with bills, and the desk becomes a still life. Tuck them behind a bride’s ear, and the wedding photos tilt toward whimsy. They’re the antidote to stiffness, to the overthought, to the fear that nothing blooms without being coddled. Next time you pass a patch of Cosmos—straggling by a highway, maybe, or tangled in a neighbor’s fence—grab a stem. Take it home. Let it remind you that resilience can be delicate, that grace doesn’t require grandeur, that sometimes the most breathtaking things are the ones that grow as if they’ve got nothing to prove. You’ll stare. You’ll smile. You’ll wonder why you ever bothered with fussier flowers.

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

Frankfort, Ohio, sits in the crook of a valley like a well-thumbed paperback left open on the arm of a couch. The town’s pulse is felt first at dawn, when sunlight spills over the hills and the grain elevator casts a long shadow that seems to measure the day’s potential. Farmers in ball caps and work boots amble into the Corner Cafe, where the air smells of bacon and unfiltered gossip. The waitress knows their orders before they sit. Outside, a freight train groans past the edge of town, its horn echoing off the brick storefronts like a call that’s been unanswered for decades but still gets dutifully sent. This is a place where time doesn’t so much pass as accumulate, layer by layer, in the cracks of sidewalks and the rings of old oaks.

Main Street wears its history like a frayed flannel shirt, comfortable, unpretentious, patched with pride. The barbershop’s striped pole still spins. The hardware store’s creaky floors hold the imprints of generations. At the diner, high school athletes slide into vinyl booths, their laughter bouncing off pie cases stocked with rhubarb and apple. You can sense the town’s rhythm in the way people wave at passing cars, in the way the postmaster nods at dogs trotting beside their owners. There’s a code here, unspoken but understood: you look out, but you don’t pry. You notice, but you don’t stare. The social contract is written in shared casseroles after funerals and borrowed jumper cables in the Kroger parking lot.

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

Autumn sharpens the air, and the town leans into its rituals. On Friday nights, the high school football field becomes a cathedral under halogen lights. The crowd’s roar rises like steam as the quarterback, a kid who mows lawns in summer and shovels driveways in winter, lofts a wobbly pass into the end zone. Cheerleaders stomp on plywood bleachers, their breath visible in the cold. Later, win or lose, everyone gathers at the Dairy Dee-Lite, where vanilla soft-serve tastes like victory. The fall festival parades down Main Street with tractors pulling hayrides, kids ducking for candy, and the fire department’s Dalmatian riding shotgun in the antique engine. Pumpkins line porches. Smoke curls from leaf piles. It’s a pageant of the ordinary, so unironic it feels almost radical.

The land around Frankfort flexes with seasons. In spring, fields blush green as soybeans push through the soil. By July, cornstalks stand like rows of quiet soldiers. Farmers move through their routines with the patience of monks, tending soil that’s equal parts promise and puzzle. At the edge of town, a creek twists through woods where deer flick their ears at the sound of bicycles on gravel. Kids still build forts here. Couples carve initials into footbridges. The landscape feels less like a backdrop and more like a character, steady and unyielding, teaching the same lesson again and again: growth demands work, but work can be its own reward.

Schools here are small enough that every student gets cast in the Christmas play. Teachers double as coaches, chaperones, and de facto life counselors. The library’s summer reading program has the same volunteers it did in 1987. There’s a sense of continuity that borders on defiance, a refusal to let the chill of modernity freeze the town’s capillaries. When the internet buffered, Frankfort kept its scrapbooks. When the world sped up, it stayed stubbornly, gloriously slow.

To call Frankfort quaint would miss the point. Quaintness is a performance. This is a town that simply exists, humming like a well-tuned engine, its people bound by a quiet understanding: life isn’t about grand narratives. It’s about showing up. It’s the way the church bells still mark noon, the way the elderly couple on Elm Street walks hand-in-hand each evening, the way the stars seem to hang lower here, as if the sky itself is leaning in to listen.