Younger Futhark
Íss is ice, and the Norwegian poem gives it two lines: ice we call a broad bridge; the blind man must be led. In a country of fjords, freezing was how heavy loads moved, so the bridge is real. The second line is the warning, because nobody can judge thickness from the surface. This week something that is usually closed may be open to you, a route or an arrangement that was impassable before. Cross with somebody who knows that particular water. The Icelandic stanza calls ice the roof of the wave, a skin over something still moving. Whatever has gone still this week has not stopped underneath. Nothing is being lost while it holds, so there is no need to hurry, only to go across with a guide.