June 1, 2025

The Bloom Central flower delivery of the month for June in Empire is the Birthday Cheer Bouquet

Introducing the delightful Birthday Cheer Bouquet, a floral arrangement that is sure to bring joy and happiness to any birthday celebration! Designed by the talented team at Bloom Central, this bouquet is perfect for adding a touch of vibrant color and beauty to any special occasion.

With its cheerful mix of bright blooms, the Birthday Cheer Bouquet truly embodies the spirit of celebration. Bursting with an array of colorful flowers such as pink roses, hot pink mini carnations, orange lilies, and purple statice, this bouquet creates a stunning visual display that will captivate everyone in the room.

The simple yet elegant design makes it easy for anyone to appreciate the beauty of this arrangement. Each flower has been carefully selected and arranged by skilled florists who have paid attention to every detail. The combination of different colors and textures creates a harmonious balance that is pleasing to both young and old alike.

One thing that sets apart the Birthday Cheer Bouquet from others is its long-lasting freshness. The high-quality flowers used in this arrangement are known for their ability to stay fresh for longer periods compared to ordinary blooms. This means your loved one can enjoy their beautiful gift even days after their birthday!

Not only does this bouquet look amazing but it also carries a fragrant scent that fills up any room with pure delight. As soon as you enter into space where these lovely flowers reside you'll be transported into an oasis filled with sweet floral aromas.

Whether you're surprising your close friend or family member, sending them warm wishes across distances or simply looking forward yourself celebrating amidst nature's creation; let Bloom Central's whimsical Birthday Cheer Bouquet make birthdays extra-special!

Consider the protea ... that prehistoric showstopper, that botanical fireworks display that seems less like a flower and more like a sculpture forged by some mad genius at the intersection of art and evolution. Its central dome bristles with spiky bracts like a sea urchin dressed for gala, while the outer petals fan out in a defiant sunburst of color—pinks that blush from petal tip to stem, crimsons so deep they flirt with black, creamy whites that glow like moonlit porcelain. You’ve seen them in high-end florist shops, these alien beauties from South Africa, their very presence in an arrangement announcing that this is no ordinary bouquet ... this is an event, a statement, a floral mic drop.

What makes proteas revolutionary isn’t just their looks—though let’s be honest, no other flower comes close to their architectural audacity—but their sheer staying power. While roses sigh and collapse after three days, proteas stand firm for weeks, their leathery petals and woody stems laughing in the face of decay. They’re the marathon runners of the cut-flower world, endurance athletes that refuse to quit even as the hydrangeas around them dissolve into sad, papery puddles. And their texture ... oh, their texture. Run your fingers over a protea’s bloom and you’ll find neither the velvety softness of a rose nor the crisp fragility of a daisy, but something altogether different—a waxy, almost plastic resilience that feels like nature showing off.

The varieties read like a cast of mythical creatures. The ‘King Protea,’ big as a dinner plate, its central fluff of stamens resembling a lion’s mane. The ‘Pink Ice,’ with its frosted-looking bracts that shimmer under light. The ‘Banksia,’ all spiky cones and burnt-orange hues, looking like something that might’ve grown on Mars. Each one brings its own brand of drama, its own reason to abandon timid floral conventions and embrace the bold. Pair them with palm fronds and you’ve created a jungle. Add them to a bouquet of succulents and suddenly you’re not arranging flowers ... you’re curating a desert oasis.

Here’s the thing about proteas: they don’t do subtle. Drop one into a vase of carnations and the carnations instantly look like they’re wearing sweatpants to a black-tie event. But here’s the magic—proteas don’t just dominate ... they elevate. Their unapologetic presence gives everything around them permission to be bolder, brighter, more unafraid. A single stem in a minimalist ceramic vase transforms a room into a gallery. Three of them in a wild, sprawling arrangement? Now you’ve got a conversation piece, a centerpiece that doesn’t just sit there but performs.

Cut their stems at a sharp angle. Sear the ends with boiling water (they’ll reward you by lasting even longer). Strip the lower leaves to avoid slimy disasters. Do these things, and you’re not just arranging flowers—you’re conducting a symphony of texture and longevity. A protea on your mantel isn’t decoration ... it’s a declaration. A reminder that nature doesn’t always do delicate. Sometimes it does magnificent. Sometimes it does unforgettable.

The genius of proteas is how they bridge worlds. They’re exotic but not fussy, dramatic but not needy, rugged enough to thrive in harsh climates yet refined enough to star in haute floristry. They’re the flower equivalent of a perfectly tailored leather jacket—equally at home in a sleek urban loft or a sunbaked coastal cottage. Next time you see them, don’t just admire from afar. Bring one home. Let it sit on your table like a quiet revolution. Days later, when other blooms have surrendered, your protea will still be there, still vibrant, still daring you to think differently about what a flower can be.

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

In the heart of Wisconsin’s glacial plains, where the land swells and dips like a slow-breathing thing, there exists a town named Empire. To call it small would miss the point. Empire’s streets curve under canopies of oak and maple, their leaves in autumn a riot of color so vivid it feels like the trees are shouting. The air smells of cut grass and woodsmoke, of earth thawing in spring and frost settling in December. Children pedal bikes past clapboard houses with porch swings that creak in the wind. You notice things here. A handwritten sign for a bake sale. A pickup idling outside the post office, its driver waving to a woman carrying a pie. The town hums, but softly, a murmur beneath the louder frequencies of modern American life.

Empire began as a railroad stop in 1871, a name chosen not for grandeur but as a nod to the local sawmill’s brand of timber. The tracks still run east to west, slicing the town into halves that, by some quiet agreement, refuse to be divided. Each morning, commuters cross them on foot, nodding to the Amtrak conductor who leans from the cab, his wave as routine as sunrise. History here isn’t a museum exhibit. It’s the creak of the feed mill’s water wheel, still turning after a century. It’s the faded mural on the library wall, depicting farmers raising a barn where the elementary school now stands.

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

The people of Empire speak in a dialect of practicality and care. They plant gardens that spill over with zucchini and tomatoes, leaving surplus on doorsteps without note or fanfare. At the diner on Main Street, regulars slide into cracked vinyl booths, ordering “the usual” as the cook flips pancakes with a wink. High schoolers part-time at the hardware store restock nails in neat rows, memorizing the preferences of contractors who’ve known them since diapers. There’s a collective rhythm to these interactions, a choreography of small gestures that, stacked together, form something like trust.

North of town, the land opens into meadows threaded with creeks. Families hike trails that wind through stands of birch, their footsteps hushed by pine needles. In July, the lake glitters, dotted with kayaks and the splashes of kids cannonballing off docks. Anglers cast lines at dawn, their silhouettes still as herons. Winter transforms the same spaces into a blanketed hush. Cross-country skishers carve tracks past frozen waterfalls, their breath fogging the air. Teenagers drag sleds up the hill by the water tower, laughing as they tumble into drifts. The seasons here aren’t weather; they’re verbs.

What anchors Empire, though, isn’t just its landscape or its routines. It’s the way time seems to bend. Mornings stretch. Afternoons dissolve. Nights arrive with a clarity of stars rarely seen where light pollution crowds the sky. On Fridays, the community center fills with potluck dishes, casseroles, Jell-O salads, lemon bars, while neighbors debate the merits of fishing lures or zucchini recipes. Someone always brings a guitar. Someone else tells a story about the ’97 blizzard. The room swells with a warmth that has little to do with the thermostat.

You could drive through Empire and see only a blur of gas stations and churches. But to do so would be to misunderstand the place entirely. This town, like so many threaded into the Midwest’s fabric, thrives not in spite of its size but because of it. Every pothole repaired, every fundraiser met, every casserole delivered to a grieving family, these are the molecules of something immense. Empire isn’t a relic. It’s an argument for the possibility that connectedness, real connectedness, still exists in increments smaller than a zip code. The evidence is everywhere, if you know how to look. Watch the barber sweep his sidewalk each dawn. Notice the way the librarian stamps due dates with a grin. Stand at the edge of a field at dusk, listening to the corn rustle, and feel the strange, stubborn hope of a place that quietly, insistently, insists on being a home.