Skirting Sinai

God, I feel like pressing up against every place You have been--like lying spread-eagled in the middle of miles of empty earth, feeling the echoes of Your act of creation wave through ages to buzz faintly against my ribs. I want to see a flash of your delight in the iridescent fidgeting of little birds, and to trace the ridges of Your fingerprints in the bark of a living tree. I want to follow along behind You, soaking in the particles of wonder that trail in Your wake. I fear coming closer; for even from here, at times I catch a whiff of something burning. I fear the awful boundary line, and the smoke, and the Voice that sets the mountain trembling.