June 1, 2025

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

Calla Lilies don’t just bloom ... they architect. A single stem curves like a Fibonacci equation made flesh, spathe spiraling around the spadix in a gradient of intention, less a flower than a theorem in ivory or plum or solar yellow. Other lilies shout. Callas whisper. Their elegance isn’t passive. It’s a dare.

Consider the geometry. That iconic silhouette—swan’s neck, bishop’s crook, unfurling scroll—isn’t an accident. It’s evolution showing off. The spathe, smooth as poured ceramic, cups the spadix like a secret, its surface catching light in gradients so subtle they seem painted by air. Pair them with peonies, all ruffled chaos, and the Calla becomes the calm in the storm. Pair them with succulents or reeds, and they’re the exclamation mark, the period, the glyph that turns noise into language.

Color here is a con. White Callas aren’t white. They’re alabaster at dawn, platinum at noon, mother-of-pearl by moonlight. The burgundy varieties? They’re not red. They’re the inside of a velvet-lined box, a shade that absorbs sound as much as light. And the greens—pistachio, lime, chlorophyll dreaming of neon—defy the very idea of “foliage.” Use them in monochrome arrangements, and the vase becomes a meditation. Scatter them among rainbowed tulips, and they pivot, becoming referees in a chromatic boxing match.

They’re longevity’s secret agents. While daffodils slump after days and poppies dissolve into confetti, Callas persist. Stems stiffen, spathes tighten, colors deepening as if the flower is reverse-aging, growing bolder as the room around it fades. Leave them in a forgotten corner, and they’ll outlast your deadlines, your houseplants, your interest in floral design itself.

Scent is optional. Some offer a ghost of lemon zest. Others trade in silence. This isn’t a lack. It’s curation. Callas reject olfactory theatrics. They’re here for your eyes, your Instagram feed, your retinas’ undivided awe. Let roses handle romance. Callas deal in geometry.

Their stems are covert operatives. Thick, waxy, they bend but never bow, hoisting blooms with the poise of a ballet dancer balancing a teacup. Cut them short, and the arrangement feels intimate, a confession. Leave them long, and the room acquires altitude, ceilings stretching to accommodate the verticality.

When they fade, they do it with dignity. Spathes crisp at the edges, curling into parchment scrolls, colors bleaching to vintage postcard hues. Leave them be. A dried Calla in a winter window isn’t a relic. It’s a palindrome. A promise that form outlasts function.

You could call them cold. Austere. Too perfect. But that’s like faulting a diamond for its facets. Callas don’t do messy. They do precision. Unapologetic, sculptural, a blade of beauty in a world of clutter. An arrangement with them isn’t decor. It’s a manifesto. Proof that sometimes, the simplest lines ... are the ones that cut deepest.

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

Imagine a place where the Wasatch Range doesn’t just sit there, inert as postcards, but leans in. Where the mountains seem to participate. Cedar Hills, Utah, population roughly 10,000, sits folded into the foothills like a note slipped into a pocket. To drive its streets is to feel the grid of suburbia soften under the insistence of geography. Rows of tidy homes angle upward, their windows framing slopes so steep and close they give the illusion the earth itself is peering in. People here don’t just mow lawns; they negotiate gradients, their garages stocked with hiking boots and sleds and bikes built for trails that start where backyards end. The air tastes like pine resin and possibility.

You notice first the light. At dawn, the sun doesn’t rise so much as emerge from behind Mount Timpanogos, spilling gold over rooftops already stirring with schoolbound kids and parents sipping coffee in driveways. There’s a quiet choreography to mornings here, joggers nodding to dog walkers, crossing guards high-fiving helmeted children, that feels less like routine than ritual. The mountain looms, but not oppressively. It serves as a kind of compass, its snowline a running tally of the seasons. In winter, the streets hum with the hiss of cross-country skis; summers bring the thwack of tennis balls and the murmur of sprinklers keeping lawns improbably green against the desert’s whisper.

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

What’s strange, maybe, is how unstrange it all feels. Cedar Hills has the vibe of a town that’s solved a riddle: how to exist near wilderness without being swallowed by it. The sidewalks curve past playgrounds and pocket parks where teenagers lounge without irony, their laughter carrying farther in the thin air. Neighbors here know each other’s names. They bring casseroles when someone’s sick, gather for summer concerts on the commons, argue amiably about zoning laws. There’s a library that smells like old paper and ambition, its shelves stocked with mysteries and coding manuals and picture books worn soft by small hands.

The trails, though, the trails are where the place reveals its pulse. After school, kids vanish into stands of aspen, reappearing hours later with burrs on their socks and stories about deer. Retirees hike at dawn, their poles ticking like metronomes. On weekends, families climb to the Bonneville Shoreline Trail, where the valley unfurls below like a lesson in perspective. You can see the sprawl of Utah Lake, the distant smudge of Salt Lake City, but here, the world feels scaled to human proportions. The wind carries the scent of sagebrush, and for a moment, you’re struck by the sense that this is how life is supposed to feel: uncomplicated, connected, steeped in a quiet awe.

There’s a community center with a pool that shimmers like turquoise in July. Kids cannonball while parents gossip in lawn chairs, their faces tilted toward the sun. Basketball courts echo with the syncopated thump of sneakers. Someone’s always organizing something, a food drive, a pickleball tournament, a lecture on local geology. The vibe isn’t Stepfordian but sincerely communal, a web of small kindnesses. You get the sense people move here not to escape anything but to grasp something: a life where front porches matter more than fences, where the horizon isn’t just a concept but a daily companion.

Dusk falls gently. From a certain angle, the streetlights could be stars. Teens pile into diners for milkshakes, their phones forgotten as they lean into the glow of shared jokes. An elderly couple walks hand in hand, their shadows long and faintly heroic against the pavement. Somewhere, a garage band fumbles through a Nirvana riff. The mountain darkens to a silhouette, its presence now felt more than seen, a reminder that beauty doesn’t need to shout. Cedar Hills, in its understated way, seems to agree.