June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in West Hill is the Circling the Sun Luxury Bouquet

The Circling the Sun Luxury Bouquet is a floral arrangement that simply takes your breath away! Bursting with vibrant colors and delicate blooms, this bouquet is as much a work of art as it is a floral arrangement.

As you gaze upon this stunning arrangement, you'll be captivated by its sheer beauty. Arranged within a clear glass pillow vase that makes it look as if this bouquet has been captured in time, this design starts with river rocks at the base topped with yellow Cymbidium Orchid blooms and culminates with Captain Safari Mini Calla Lilies and variegated steel grass blades circling overhead. A unique arrangement that was meant to impress.

What sets this luxury bouquet apart is its impeccable presentation - expertly arranged by Bloom Central's skilled florists who pour heart into every petal placement. Each flower stands gracefully at just right height creating balance within itself as well as among others in its vicinity-making it look absolutely drool-worthy!

Whether gracing your dining table during family gatherings or adding charm to an office space filled with deadlines the Circling The Sun Luxury Bouquet brings nature's splendor indoors effortlessly. This beautiful gift will brighten the day and remind you that life is filled with beauty and moments to be cherished.

With its stunning blend of colors, fine craftsmanship, and sheer elegance the Circling the Sun Luxury Bouquet from Bloom Central truly deserves a standing ovation. Treat yourself or surprise someone special because everyone deserves a little bit of sunshine in their lives!"

Amaranthus does not behave like other flowers. It does not sit politely in a vase, standing upright, nodding gently in the direction of the other blooms. It spills. It drapes. It cascades downward in long, trailing tendrils that look more like something from a dream than something you can actually buy from a florist. It refuses to stay contained, which is exactly why it makes an arrangement feel alive.

There are two main types, though “types” doesn’t really do justice to how completely different they look. There’s the upright kind, with tall, tapering spikes that look like velvet-coated wands reaching toward the sky, adding height and texture and this weirdly ancient, almost prehistoric energy to a bouquet. And then there’s the trailing kind, the showstopper, the one that flows downward in thick ropes, soft and heavy, like some extravagant, botanical waterfall. Both versions have a weight to them, a physical presence that makes the usual rules of flower arranging feel irrelevant.

And the color. Deep, rich, impossible-to-ignore shades of burgundy, magenta, crimson, chartreuse. They look saturated, velvety, intense, like something out of an old oil painting, the kind where fruit and flowers are arranged on a wooden table with dramatic lighting and tiny beads of condensation on the grapes. Stick Amaranthus in a bouquet, and suddenly it feels more expensive, more opulent, more like it should be displayed in a room with high ceilings and heavy curtains and a kind of hushed reverence.

But what really makes Amaranthus unique is movement. Arrangements are usually about balance, about placing each stem at just the right angle to create a structured, harmonious composition. Amaranthus doesn’t care about any of that. It moves. It droops. It reaches out past the edge of the vase and pulls everything around it into a kind of organic, unplanned-looking beauty. A bouquet without Amaranthus can feel static, frozen, too aware of its own perfection. Add those long, trailing ropes, and suddenly there’s drama. There’s tension. There’s this gorgeous contrast between what is contained and what refuses to be.

And it lasts. Long after more delicate flowers have wilted, after the petals have started falling and the leaves have lost their luster, Amaranthus holds on. It dries beautifully, keeping its shape and color for weeks, sometimes months, as if it has decided that decay is simply not an option. Which makes sense, considering its name literally means “unfading” in Greek.

Amaranthus is not for the timid. It does not blend in, does not behave, does not sit quietly in the background. It transforms an arrangement, giving it depth, movement, and this strange, undeniable sense of history, like it belongs to another era but somehow ended up here. Once you start using it, once you see what it does to a bouquet, how it changes the whole mood of a space, you will not go back. Some flowers are beautiful. Amaranthus is unforgettable.

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

West Hill, Ohio, sits under a sky so wide and close you can almost hear it hum. The town unfolds in a grid of streets named after trees that no longer grow here, their roots replaced by pavement and the quiet persistence of people who water marigolds in coffee cans on their porches. To drive through West Hill is to witness a paradox: a place both suspended in amber and vibrating with the low-grade electricity of lives being lived deliberately. The air smells of cut grass and distant rain, and the sidewalks are cracked in ways that suggest not decay but the gentle insistence of time. Everyone here knows the sound of the 3:15 train, not a mournful whistle but a bright, two-note chord that turns heads toward the tracks, as if the day itself had just cleared its throat.

The heart of West Hill is a diner called The Silver Spoon, where high school football coaches argue over scrambled eggs and the waitress knows which regulars take their pie à la mode without asking. The pies rotate daily, cherry on Mondays, peach on Thursdays, but the ritual never changes. Strangers are served quickly but watched carefully, not with suspicion but curiosity, as if the town is quietly proud of itself for having something a stranger might want. Across the street, the library’s stone façade wears a beard of ivy, and inside, children press fingerprints onto the windows while reading about dinosaurs, their mothers whispering urgent phone calls in the periodicals section.

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

On Tuesdays, the farmers’ market spills into the parking lot of First Methodist, where retirees sell zucchini the size of forearms and jars of honey that glow like liquid sunlight. Teenagers hawk lemonade with entrepreneurial fervor, their signs misspelled but earnest. You can buy a candle here that smells like “Autumn Rain” or a quilt stitched by someone’s great-aunt, the seams holding generations of TV dinners and snow days. The laughter is unselfconscious. A man in a Buckeyes hat argues with a vendor over the price of rhubarb, and both know it’s a kind of theater, a dance they’ll repeat next week.

West Hill’s park has a swing set that chirps like a flock of metallic birds. Parents push toddlers while joggers loop the perimeter, their earbuds in but their eyes lifted toward the canopy of oaks. At dusk, the Little League field becomes a stage for fathers teaching sons how to grip a curveball, their shadows stretching long and thin, and the thwack of the mitt carries across the diamond like a secret handshake. The grass here is mowed every Friday by a man named Phil Dunlap, who wears a straw hat and waves at every car, even the ones that don’t wave back.

What’s easy to miss about West Hill is how it resists nostalgia without dismissing it. The old theater downtown plays blockbusters but still has a marquee with changeable letters, and when the light hits it just right at sunset, the whole building seems to blush. The high school’s marching band practices relentlessly for Friday nights, their off-key brass drifting over the Kroger parking lot, where a cashier named Linda tells customers to have a blessed day and means it. There’s a barbershop where the conversation is always sports or weather, never politics, and the mirrors are fogged at the edges from decades of hot towels.

You could call West Hill ordinary, but you’d be wrong. Ordinary implies a lack of attention, and attention is the town’s currency. Neighbors notice when your porch light burns out. The mailman knows your dog’s name. The seasons turn in a riot of cornfields and pumpkin patches, and every December, the VFW hall glows with strands of lights shaped like snowflakes, each one tested by a man with a clipboard and a ladder. It’s a place where the word “community” isn’t an abstraction but a collection of small, visible acts, a casserole left on a doorstep, a wave across a driveway, the way the entire town seems to lean forward when the choir sings at the winter concert.

To understand West Hill, you must understand this: It is not a postcard. It is alive. It breathes. It remembers. It hopes. And if you stand very still on Main Street at twilight, you might feel the peculiar magic of a town that has decided, every day for 150 years, to keep being itself.