
A neighbourhood studio arranging seasonal blooms and letterpress cards, the whole gesture, wrapped and delivered.
We arrange with whatever is best at the market that morning and press our cards one sheet at a time on a hundred-year-old letterpress. The whole gesture, wrapped and ready to send.
Half florist, half print shop, entirely a two-person studio that answers its own emails.
We buy at the market at dawn and arrange to order, so nothing sits in a bucket for a week before it reaches you.

Our cards are letterpressed in-house on a hundred-year-old press, so every one carries a little bite of ink.

Cut this morning, arranged to order.



Four days, most of them spent making sure nothing sits in a cooler.
We buy at dawn from six growers inside ninety miles. Whatever is best that week sets the palette.
Not a stem list. A colour, a room, a feeling, and we build toward it.
Every arrangement is made the day it goes out. Nothing is held over to the next.
In the city, by us, standing in water. Everywhere else, packed dry and boxed carefully.
Whatever is best at the market that morning.
Letterpress cards printed on our own press.
Cycled across the city, often the same afternoon.




Pause any week, cancel whenever. We never charge for a week you skipped.
A small jar of whatever was best that week.
The arrangement we would put on our own table.
Weekly flowers for a counter, a lobby, or a studio.
“The card was as beautiful as the flowers. Nobody does both this well.”
“My go-to for every apology and every celebration.”