In gatherings grand, I hold liquid gold, with a stem and a crown, tales of old unfold. Raised in joy, sparkling in light, bearer of toasts, I dance through the night.

A garden built from bones of glass, keeping frost outside as seasons pass.

I have sections inside and appeal outside expressed in unified color anathema to poetic gesture.

I know the language of stillness before I learn the language of steam. Heat teaches me urgency; I rise, I tremble, I cry. And when I am emptied, I return to silence, waiting to be filled again. What am I?

The person who makes it doesn’t need it. The person who buys it doesn’t use it. The person who uses it doesn’t know they’re using it. What is it?