June 1, 2025

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

Delphiniums don’t just grow ... they vault. Stems like javelins launch skyward, stacked with florets that spiral into spires of blue so intense they make the atmosphere look indecisive. These aren’t flowers. They’re skyscrapers. Chromatic lightning rods. A single stem in a vase doesn’t decorate ... it colonizes, hijacking the eye’s journey from tabletop to ceiling with the audacity of a cathedral in a strip mall.

Consider the physics of color. Delphinium blue isn’t a pigment. It’s a argument—indigo at the base, periwinkle at the tip, gradients shifting like storm clouds caught mid-tantrum. The whites? They’re not white. They’re light incarnate, petals so stark they bleach the air around them. Pair them with sunflowers, and the yellow deepens, the blue vibrates, the whole arrangement humming like a struck tuning fork. Use them in a monochrome bouquet, and the vase becomes a lecture on how many ways one hue can scream.

Structure is their religion. Florets cling to the stem in precise whorls, each tiny bloom a perfect five-petaled cog in a vertical factory of awe. The leaves—jagged, lobed, veined like topographic maps—aren’t afterthoughts. They’re exclamation points. Strip them, and the stem becomes a minimalist’s dream. Leave them on, and the delphinium transforms into a thicket, a jungle in miniature.

They’re temporal paradoxes. Florets open from the bottom up, a slow-motion fireworks display that stretches days into weeks. An arrangement with delphiniums isn’t static. It’s a time-lapse. A countdown. A serialized epic where every morning offers a new chapter. Pair them with fleeting poppies or suicidal lilies, and the contrast becomes a morality play—persistence wagging its finger at decadence.

Scent is a footnote. A green whisper, a hint of pepper. This isn’t an oversight. It’s a power play. Delphiniums reject olfactory competition. They’re here for your eyes, your camera roll, your retinas’ undivided surrender. Let roses handle romance. Delphiniums deal in spectacle.

Height is their manifesto. While daisies hug the earth and tulips nod at polite altitudes, delphiniums pierce. They’re obelisks in a floral skyline, spires that force ceilings to yawn. Cluster three stems in a galvanized bucket, lean them into a teepee of blooms, and the arrangement becomes a nave. A place where light goes to pray.

Symbolism clings to them like pollen. Victorians called them “larkspur” and stuffed them into coded bouquets ... modern florists treat them as structural divas ... gardeners curse their thirst and adore their grandeur. None of that matters. What matters is how they crack a room’s complacency, their blue a crowbar prying open the mundane.

When they fade, they do it with stoic grace. Florets drop like spent fireworks, colors retreating to memory, stems bowing like retired soldiers. But even then, they’re sculptural. Leave them be. A dried delphinium in a January window isn’t a corpse. It’s a fossilized shout. A rumor that spring’s artillery is just a frost away.

You could default to hydrangeas, to snapdragons, to flowers that play nice. But why? Delphiniums refuse to be subtle. They’re the uninvited guest who rewrites the party’s playlist, the punchline that outlives the joke. An arrangement with them isn’t décor. It’s a coup. Proof that sometimes, the most beautiful things ... are the ones that make you crane your neck.

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

You notice the bells first, of course. Not a single clang but a chorus, tinny and bright, tumbling from the squat steeple of the First Methodist Church, the high school’s carillon, the rust-flecked sign above City Hall that spells BELLS in block letters and sways on its chains when the wind kicks up from the cotton fields. This is a town that announces itself audibly, insistently, a place where sound maps the day. At 7 a.m., the school’s bell shakes teenagers awake. At noon, the courthouse clock chimes lunch. By dusk, the church rings a hushed, almost apologetic note to signal day’s end, though the effect is less about piety than rhythm, the way a heartbeat insists here, here, here.

Bells, Tennessee, sits where the flat of West Tennessee starts to crumple into low hills, a geography that makes the horizon feel both near and endless. Drive in on Highway 79 and you’ll pass a Piggly Wiggly, a John Deere dealership, a redbrick elementary school where third graders sketch the town’s history: railroad crews in the 1850s, the depot’s first telegraph bell, the way the whole place became a junction for voices clanging over wires. Today, the tracks still cut through downtown, but the trains don’t stop. They just roll past the antique mall, the diner with its checkered floor, the barbershop where old men argue over high school football strategy, their laughter a counterpoint to the metallic shriek of wheels on steel.

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

What’s uncanny about Bells is how the mundane glows. The post office doubles as a gallery for local art, watercolors of barns, acrylics of collie dogs. The pharmacist knows your allergies by heart. At the park, teenagers play pickup basketball under lights that hum like tired angels, and the thump of the ball syncs with the cicadas’ drone. Every Saturday, the farmers’ market spills across the courthouse lawn, and here’s Ms. Betty with her jars of peach jam, and here’s Mr. Clayborne with okra so fresh it feels like a moral argument against supermarkets. People linger not out of obligation but because the air smells like basil and someone’s telling a story about a cat who keeps stealing socks from a laundromat.

The town’s genius lies in its refusal to confuse smallness with scarcity. When the library needed new roofs, the Lions Club hosted a barbecue that drew half the county. When the Thompson boy won a national robotics competition, the fire department paraded him down Main Street in Engine 3, lights flashing like a four-year-old’s birthday dream. Even the contradictions feel generative: The same folks who bicker about property taxes will mow your lawn if you’re laid up with a broken ankle. The same teens who eye-roll at the bells will gather at the Sonic on Friday nights, their cars arranged in a loose circle, as if orbiting some shared, unspoken hope.

There’s a story locals tell about the 1993 tornado. How it ripped the steeple off the Methodist church, how the bell plunged into a mud puddle, how the whole town turned out to haul it back up with ropes and pulleys and a forklift borrowed from the grain co-op. They say the bell rang clearer after that, as if the fall had shaken something loose. You can choose to hear this as metaphor, communities forged in crisis, etc., but in Bells, it’s just physics. A bell, like a town, is a hollow thing until something moves through it. Wind. A hammer. The weight of history. The sound that follows isn’t an answer but an echo, proof that motion lingers.

By nightfall, the streets empty. Fireflies blink above lawns. On porches, swings creak, and screen doors slap, and someone’s grandma waves as she waters her roses. Somewhere, always, a bell rings, not to declare urgency but presence, a way of saying listen, listen, we’re still here.