This is all so interesting. If our wings allow us to ascend, lift off, and generally get airborne, then whatever they're made of needs to be something strong and light. In some ways, it's easier to see this in other people. Thinking of certain friends and their "wing-stuff," I see wings made from:
zaniness and humor
ability to perceive green in the sky (honestly!)
the thrill of moonlight
chocolate-chip cookies and sunset on the river
downward-facing-dog
snowshoes and round-the-next-bend eagerness
Years ago, I wrote a poem on this very subject for a friend who was, I felt, sometimes a bit overlooked. The inside of her was glorious and worth discovery, though the outside didn't quite indicate the richness of her spirit. I imagined them as a velvety red:
Your wings pile up in red waves,
in places the pink
of inside a cat’s cheek,
lip coral, there,
and proper coral
that lives under the lip of the world,
but mainly a red as rich as wine
or the black red of blood.
Later in the poem, I encouraged her to let us see them more often:
Your wings, Anne,
tonight shook loose with a great sigh,
tumbled down your back
and cast a brilliant shadow
on our meal.
I know what they expressed
and you heard it, too:
a wish to live more often in the air
and a promise
they will only deliver you
into the heavens
you choose for yourself,
the ones your life
is making this moment.
I'm in favor of all of our wings open and glorious - whatever they're made of.
KateSinging