A needle whose purpose is not to pierce, but to clean. Made not of metal, but of wood

Quick as a blink, gone in a flash, A sudden burst, without a crash. Fingers meet in a crisp embrace, A fleeting sound, a moment's trace.

It holds no heat of its own, yet rises and falls with yours, and speaks only in numbers when asked how warm the world has become. What am I?

I begin as a seed’s soft guard, become a strand that traps air, and end as the quiet weight in what you wear. What am I?

I am always invited to feasts, but I never eat. Although I never celebrate, I am the first to suffer the excesses. I arrive looking good, but am often discarded without a second thought. I handle your messes and am ruined so you don’t have to be.