June 1, 2025

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

Astilbes, and let’s be clear about this from the outset, are not the main event in your garden, not the roses, not the peonies, not the headliners. They are not the kind of flower you stop and gape at like some kind of floral spectacle, no immediate gasp, no automatic reaching for the phone camera, no dramatic pause before launching into effusive praise. And yet ... and yet.

There is a quality to Astilbes, a kind of behind-the-scenes magic, that can take an ordinary arrangement and push it past the realm of “nice” and into something close to breathtaking, though not in an obvious way. They are the backing vocals that make the song, the shadow that defines the light. Without them, a bouquet might look fine, acceptable, even professional. With them, something shifts. They soften. They unify. They pull together discordant elements, bridge gaps, blur edges, and create a kind of cohesion that wasn’t there before.

The reason for this, if we’re getting specific, is texture. Unlike the rigid geometry of lilies or the dense pom-pom effect of dahlias, Astilbes bring something different to the table ... or to the vase, as it were. Their feathery plumes, those fine, delicate fronds, have a way of catching light, diffusing it, creating movement where there was once only static color blocks. Arrangements without Astilbes can feel heavy, solid, like they are only aware of their own weight. But throw in a few stems of these airy, ethereal blooms, and suddenly there’s a sense of motion, a kind of visual breath. It’s the difference between a painting that’s flat and one that has depth.

And it’s not just their form that does this. Their color range—soft pinks, deep reds, ghostly whites, subtle lavenders—somehow manages to be both striking and subdued. They don’t shout. They don’t demand attention. But they shift the mood. A bouquet with Astilbes feels more natural, more organic, less forced. The word “effortless” gets thrown around a lot in flower arranging, usually by people who have spent far too much time and effort making something look that way. But with Astilbes, effortless isn’t an illusion. It just is.

Now, if you’ve never actually looked at an Astilbe up close, here’s something to do next time you find yourself near a properly stocked flower shop or, better yet, a garden with an eye for perennials. Lean in. Really look at the structure of those tiny, clustered flowers, each one a perfect minuscule star. They are fractal in their complexity. Each plume, made of many tiny stems, each stem made of tinier stems, each of those carrying its own impossibly delicate flowers. It’s a cascade effect, a waterfall of softness.

And if you are someone who enjoys the art of arranging flowers, who feels a deep satisfaction in placing stem after stem in a way that feels right rather than just technically correct, then Astilbes should be a staple in your arsenal. They are the unsung heroes of the bouquet, the quiet force that transforms good into something more. The kind of flower that, once you’ve started using them, you will wonder how you ever managed without.

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

Smithfield, Rhode Island, sits quietly in the northern reaches of the Ocean State, a town whose name suggests a kind of sturdy, unpretentious Americana, and whose reality does not disappoint. To drive through Smithfield is to pass through a landscape that feels both preserved and alive, a place where colonial-era homes share ZIP codes with the hum of modern academia, where the scent of pine needles mingles with the faint whir of distant highways. The town’s identity resists easy categorization. It is neither fully rural nor suburban, neither strictly historic nor entirely new. It is, instead, a lattice of contradictions that somehow cohere.

Consider the Smith-Appleby House, a 12-room colonial homestead built in 1696, its weathered clapboard walls standing like a patient sentinel against the rush of centuries. Visitors here move through rooms where time feels viscous, where the creak of floorboards seems to whisper secrets of the town’s earliest days. Yet less than two miles northeast, the campus of Bryant University sprawls with sleek glass buildings and manicured quads, students lugging backpacks and laptops, their conversations a mix of finance jargon and TikTok trends. The juxtaposition could feel jarring, but in Smithfield, it doesn’t. The town absorbs these contrasts like a dialect, folding old and new into a single, unbroken syntax.

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

Walk the trails of Deerfield Park on a Saturday morning. Retirees power-walk in pairs, discussing grandchildren and cholesterol. Teenagers jog past in neon sneakers, AirPods sealing them into private soundtracks. Dogs tug leashes, noses skimming the earth for clues. The park’s pond glints under the sun, its surface ruffled by ducks that glide as if on invisible rails. There is a democracy to these spaces, a sense that the land belongs equally to everyone and no one. Smithfield’s residents seem to understand this instinctively. They nod as they pass one another, a silent pact to share the air, the paths, the day itself.

Downtown Smithfield, such as it is, clusters around Putnam Pike, a stretch of gas stations, family-owned diners, and a CVS that somehow feels endearing rather than corporate. At the Smithfield Diner, regulars slide into vinyl booths, ordering pancakes with the casual authority of people who’ve done this for decades. Waitresses refill coffee cups without asking, their hands steady, their banter warm and frictionless. Nearby, a small hardware store still sells nails by the pound, its shelves lined with paint cans and hedge clippers, the kind of place where the owner might help you fix a leaky faucet by drawing a diagram on a paper bag.

What defines Smithfield, though, isn’t just its landmarks or its routines. It’s the way the town insists on holding space for stillness. On backroads like Log Road or Wionki Hill Road, the world slows. Farms rise from the earth, their fields a patchwork of corn and soy. Horses flick their tails in the shade of red barns. The sky here feels larger, its clouds moving with the deliberate grace of old ships. In autumn, the trees ignite in oranges and reds; in winter, the snow softens the landscape into a series of gentle curves. Seasons here are not just weather but events, each one greeted with a mix of preparation and surrender.

Bryant University’s presence adds a quiet thrum of youth, its students volunteering at local schools, its professors browsing the shelves at the public library. The town and the school share a symbiotic rhythm, each lending the other a kind of energy. At the Apple Valley Mall, teenagers work their first jobs scooping ice cream, their futures still abstract, their laughter bouncing off the parking lot asphalt. Parents push strollers past storefronts, waving at neighbors. None of this is extraordinary, and that’s the point. Smithfield thrives in its ordinariness, its refusal to glamorize itself. It is a town built on the premise that smallness is not a limitation but a condition of care, a way to tend to the world incrementally, person by person, season by season.

To leave Smithfield is to carry the scent of its woods, the sound of its brooks, the image of its stone walls stitching the earth together. It is to remember that some places don’t shout. They hum.