June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Edgewood is the A Splendid Day Bouquet

Introducing A Splendid Day Bouquet, a delightful floral arrangement that is sure to brighten any room! This gorgeous bouquet will make your heart skip a beat with its vibrant colors and whimsical charm.

Featuring an assortment of stunning blooms in cheerful shades of pink, purple, and green, this bouquet captures the essence of happiness in every petal. The combination of roses and asters creates a lovely variety that adds depth and visual interest.

With its simple yet elegant design, this bouquet can effortlessly enhance any space it graces. Whether displayed on a dining table or placed on a bedside stand as a sweet surprise for someone special, it brings instant joy wherever it goes.

One cannot help but admire the delicate balance between different hues within this bouquet. Soft lavender blend seamlessly with radiant purples - truly reminiscent of springtime bliss!

The sizeable blossoms are complemented perfectly by lush green foliage which serves as an exquisite backdrop for these stunning flowers. But what sets A Splendid Day Bouquet apart from others? Its ability to exude warmth right when you need it most! Imagine coming home after a long day to find this enchanting masterpiece waiting for you, instantly transforming the recipient's mood into one filled with tranquility.

Not only does each bloom boast incredible beauty but their intoxicating fragrance fills the air around them. This magical creation embodies the essence of happiness and radiates positive energy. It is a constant reminder that life should be celebrated, every single day!

The Splendid Day Bouquet from Bloom Central is simply magnificent! Its vibrant colors, stunning variety of blooms, and delightful fragrance make it an absolute joy to behold. Whether you're treating yourself or surprising someone special, this bouquet will undoubtedly bring smiles and brighten any day!

Ferns don’t just occupy space in an arrangement—they haunt it. Those fractal fronds, unfurling with the precision of a Fibonacci sequence, don’t simply fill gaps between flowers; they haunt the empty places, turning negative space into something alive, something breathing. Run a finger along the edge of a maidenhair fern and you’ll feel the texture of whispered secrets—delicate, yes, but with a persistence that lingers. This isn’t greenery. It’s atmosphere. It’s the difference between a bouquet and a world.

What makes ferns extraordinary isn’t just their shape—though God, the shape. That lacework of leaflets, each one a miniature fan waving at the air, doesn’t merely sit there looking pretty. It moves. Even in stillness, ferns suggest motion, their curves like paused brushstrokes from some frenzied painter’s hand. In an arrangement, they add rhythm where there would be silence, depth where there might be flatness. They’re the floral equivalent of a backbeat—felt more than heard, the pulse that makes the whole thing swing.

Then there’s the variety. Boston ferns cascade like green waterfalls, softening the edges of a vase with their feathery droop. Asparagus ferns (not true ferns, but close enough) bristle with electric energy, their needle-like leaves catching light like static. And leatherleaf ferns—sturdy, glossy, almost architectural—lend structure without rigidity, their presence somehow both bold and understated. They can anchor a sprawling, wildflower-laden centerpiece or stand alone in a single stem vase, where their quiet complexity becomes the main event.

But the real magic is how they play with light. Those intricate fronds don’t just catch sunlight—they filter it, fracturing beams into dappled shadows that shift with the time of day. A bouquet with ferns isn’t a static object; it’s a living sundial, a performance in chlorophyll and shadow. And in candlelight? Forget it. The way those fronds flicker in the glow turns any table into a scene from a pre-Raphaelite painting—all lush mystery and whispered romance.

And the longevity. While other greens wilt or yellow within days, many ferns persist with a quiet tenacity, their cells remembering their 400-million-year lineage as Earth’s O.G. vascular plants. They’re survivors. They’ve seen dinosaurs come and go. A few days in a vase? Please. They’ll outlast your interest in the arrangement, your memory of where you bought it, maybe even your relationship with the person who gave it to you.

To call them filler is to insult 300 million years of evolutionary genius. Ferns aren’t background—they’re the context. They make flowers look more vibrant by contrast, more alive. They’re the green that makes reds redder, whites purer, pinks more electric. Without them, arrangements feel flat, literal, like a sentence without subtext. With them? Suddenly there’s story. There’s depth. There’s the sense that you’re not just looking at flowers, but peering into some verdant, primeval dream where time moves differently and beauty follows fractal math.

The best part? They ask for nothing. No gaudy blooms. No shrieking colors. Just water, a sliver of light, and maybe someone to notice how their shadows dance on the wall at 4pm. They’re the quiet poets of the plant world—content to whisper their verses to anyone patient enough to lean in close.

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

Edgewood, Pennsylvania, in the slanting light of an October afternoon, is the kind of place that makes you think about the difference between existing and being alive. The streets here curve like question marks, lined with oak trees whose roots buckle the sidewalks into philosophical undulations. Children pedal bikes uphill with a determination that feels both heroic and mundane, while golden retrievers pause mid-trot to consider the existential weight of squirrels. It’s a borough of contradictions, a quiet, unassuming patch of Allegheny County where the 19th century presses its forehead against the 21st, and neither blinks.

The houses tell stories if you let them. Tudor revivals with steeply pitched roofs stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Victorian cottages, their gingerbread trim softened by decades of rain. Porch swings drift in the breeze, and you can’t help but notice how many front doors are painted bold, unapologetic colors: cobalt, sunflower yellow, a red so deep it hums. This isn’t defiance, exactly. It’s more like a shared wink among neighbors who understand that beauty doesn’t need permission. People here garden with the intensity of zen monks, coaxing roses from clay-heavy soil, arranging stone pathways that meander toward nowhere in particular. Every block feels like a collaboration.

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

Downtown Edgewood, such as it is, clusters around a single traffic light. There’s a bakery where the croissants flake like ancient parchment, a hardware store that still sells individual nails by the pound, and a diner whose vinyl booths have absorbed decades of gossip and maple syrup. The woman who runs the used bookstore knows your name by the second visit. You’ll find her reading Proust behind the counter, a cup of Earl Grey cooling beside a stack of unpaid invoices. The train station, all red brick and arched windows, hosts a parade of commuters each morning, ties loosened, headphones in, eyes still soft with sleep. They board the 7:15 to Pittsburgh, pulled by the gravity of jobs and ambition, yet return each evening with a visible relief, as if the act of leaving only deepens their affection for coming back.

What’s strange, though, is how the place refuses to feel small. Maybe it’s the way the trees form a cathedral ceiling over the streets, or how the steep hills frame sudden, gasp-worthy views of the city skyline across the river. Maybe it’s the park, where toddlers wobble after ducks and old men play chess at picnic tables, slamming down pieces with the vigor of Roman generals. There’s a quiet democracy here, an unspoken agreement that everyone gets to be both protagonist and extra in the communal movie.

The real magic is in the sidewalks after a snowfall. Shovels scrape at dawn, voices call good morning through puffs of breath, and the whole town becomes a mosaic of wool hats and mittens. Kids haul sleds toward the best hills, while someone’s Labradoodle bounds through drifts, grinning like a fool. You can hear the creak of footsteps long before you see them, a rhythm that’s both lonely and shared. It’s the kind of cold that makes your ribs ache, but no one seems to mind. They’re too busy being alive together.

Edgewood doesn’t shout. It murmurs. It’s a pocket watch in a smartwatch world, a handwritten letter in a spam-filled inbox. To drive through is to miss the point, you have to walk it, nod at strangers, let the smell of damp leaves and fresh-baked bread steer you. There’s a tenderness here, a refusal to let the grind of modernity erase the habit of care. Lawns are mowed, casseroles appear on doorsteps after hard days, and when the fire whistle blows, volunteers sprint from dinners to trucks. It’s not perfect. But perfection is boring, and Edgewood, in all its dogged, leafy persistence, is anything but.